The M Rated Magpie's Nest
by blc
Summary: M-Rated smutty or violent one-shot bits and pieces from around the Bones universe. Bones is the prop'y of Fox & producers. Plotlines are mine. "Newton's First Law of Motion," a post-Mayhem "making love" fic now up.
1. Wrapped up in each other

It was a slight noise, but it was enough to wake Cam from her inadvertent sleep at her desk in her office. Outside her office, from the platform or thereabouts, metal instruments clicked and chimed as they were laid down again on their tray, signaling their intermittent replacement and use as whomever was working on the platform made their inspection of whatever it was they were working on.

It had to be Dr. Brennan, Cam thought, as she struggled awake. Looking at the time on her computer, she saw that it was nearly eleven o'clock on a Friday night. Bad enough that Dr. Brennan was here, but that Cam had been working hard enough to pass out at her desk on a Friday night, too? The anthropologist was a bad influence; Cam always felt like a slacker leaving before the anthropologist did, which was, of course, why she'd been working so late at her desk when she could have been home in front of the classic movie channel with a pint of ice cream instead. She pushed back slowly from her desk, still groggy with sleep, and turned to look over her shoulder. It was Dr. Brennan-- hair up in a bun, lab coat buttoned, looking as composed at eleven o'clock at night as she did at seven thirty this morning, when she'd already been on the platform as Cam arrived. She was examining some Limbo remains, older ones she used to teach something to one of her graduate students earlier on in the day.

It wasn't often Cam got to see Dr. Brennan in full professorial mode. She had to admit, she'd been impressed at the way she'd explained all the principles at issue-- clear enough to Cam, since she had enough of the scientific background. The graduate student had the doctor's undivided attention, disconcerting to anyone, much less someone who was dependent for a good grade on not quailing under that blue-eyed stare of hers, but she seemed to have done well. Cam was just glad that stare was rarely leveled at her any more. When she'd first started here, she was completely thrown off by Dr. Brennan's cool appraisal, but the woman seemed to have accepted Cam's presence, even as she continued her work with only a token nod to Cam's authority. Cam could hardly complain. The Board would kill her if Dr. Brennan ever quit.

The anthropologist, meanwhile, seemed to think she was alone, and no surprise. Cam usually left by nine at the latest, and earlier still on a Friday night. At some point before Cam had awoken, the lights in Cam's office had been turned off, and her view of Dr. Brennan was unobstructed, as well as unlit-- she could watch the anthropologist without fear of detection. Though she felt somewhat strange, Cam sat still in her chair, observing the woman she still had little insight to, almost two years since she'd taken the position.

Brennan moved quietly around the exam table, stooping to look at the bones laid out before her, a look of quiet contemplation on her face. It was if she was unaware of time when she worked, Cam thought to herself-- the woman truly became absorbed in what was before her. Cam envied and pitied her all at once. Of course, it was why she was so successful, but at the same time, Cam couldn't think that working all the time, as Dr. Brennan did, was any way to be happy. Practically the only time the doctor left at a decent hour was when Seeley came to drag her out to the diner.

Seeley. She didn't understand why he was so patient with the doctor, what it was exactly about her that had such a hold over him. Yes, she worked as hard as he did, probably harder, to close their cases. Yes, she was ferociously dedicated to their victims, as he was. But she was so awkward, and reserved, so different from him-- Cam didn't understand it. But some kind of hold over Seeley she had-- after a while, it became clear to Cam that whatever it was between the two of them, and it sure wasn't sex, Seeley took very personally any threat to Dr. Brennan, physical or otherwise. He'd sure as hell put Cam in her place the time or two Cam had intimated that she had any professional ill intentions toward Brennan. But it was just as well-- Seeley was his own man, in the end, and always came and went as he chose. It sometimes seemed to her like Dr. Brennan and his son were the only constants.

Her attention was drawn back to the doctor by a movement on the platform. The forensic anthropologist straightened, her hands placed on the small of her back. She arched backwards, stretching, her eyes closed. A small sigh escaped her, a rare moment of tiredness Cam was sure she would never have shown had she known she was being observed. Brennan's slender frame and nonetheless generous curves were highlighted by the movement, the backward arch of her body causing the fabric of her plain blue lab coat to draw tight over her breasts, dipping again against the flat plane of her stomach. Her hands as she leaned back and stretched were resting at the flare of her waist, just above her shapely bottom, only hinted at under the loose fabric of the lab coat. Cam admitted that Brennan's figure was stunning, though she didn't know when the doctor found the time to work out-- it seemed like she was always here. Of course, the woman didn't eat, either, unless Seeley made her.

As if her thoughts summoned him, the sliding glass doors to the lab whisked open, and Seeley strode in, still in his suit from the day. It had been as late a night for him as Dr. Brennan, though Cam didn't know why, since they didn't have an active case with the handsome FBI agent. He looked tired, and rumpled, but nonetheless resolute with some serious purpose-- as Cam supposed he would have to be, if he was going to pry Dr. Brennan out of the lab at this hour. She clearly had something she deemed pressing, to require her to stay so late.

Cam watched, still unnoticed, as Seeley paced quietly to the platform, and swiped his card in the reader at the base. Only that noise alerted Dr. Brennan to his presence, and her eyes opened even as she continued to stretch. She watched him as he walked slowly toward her, his jacket unbuttoned, his tie slightly loose at the neck.

"You're avoiding me," he said, his handsome features etched with concern and something else Cam couldn't place. "You haven't picked up your phone all day."

Brennan relaxed from her stretch, and returned Seeley's gaze levelly as he advanced on her. "I'm not avoiding you. There's nothing to discuss, Booth." Her melodious alto was slightly husky as she addressed him.

Cam's breath hitched in surprise as Seeley stepped directly into the anthropologist's space, his face mere inches from hers. "Don't give me that, Temperance," he said, his voice low, his eyes frankly appraising her form even as she stood unwavering while he drew close to her. Cam's breath hitched again. She'd never heard Seeley address Dr. Brennan by anything other than his nickname of "Bones" or as "Dr. Brennan" when they were in professional contexts. Something serious must have happened between them, for him to be using her given name. She was shocked, too, by how blatantly sexual his invasion of her space was, and by how the doctor seemed to expect it, even as she began to look upset by it. When was the last time Cam had seen them together? Regardless of her pertubation, however, the anthropologist returned the agent's heated gaze, not moving from the place where she stood, though Seeley invaded her space as if he could claim her by doing so. There had always been more to the two than she could see on the surface, and Cam was too intrigued and also afraid of discovery to give any hint of her presence. She had to see what happened next.

Seeley continued. "I've left you alone for two days now. To think, you said. You owe me an answer." His posture was firm, his stance balanced-- almost as if he were a predator, waiting to spring.

Cam watched in amazement as Brennan's voice softened, the sculpted alabaster planes of her face softening as well. Her blue eyes were almost azure with lambent emotion. "Booth," she said huskily. "It just... it can't be. You know that. We ... can't. Not if we're to be able to do the things we need to. Discussing it further will only make it harder both of us." As she spoke, she stood her ground, neither retreating nor advancing as Booth loomed over her, his imposing, muscular form dominating the space around both of them. Any other woman might have retreated from Booth, even Cam, in the face of such an aggressive advance, but the anthropologist stayed still-- she trusted him, whatever was happening between the two of them. She paused for a moment, swallowing slightly, her bosom heaving lightly under a sigh before she continued regretfully. "Our work is just too important."

His eyes darkened, and the air around him began to crackle and shimmer with heat as he looked down from his height into her upturned face. "Work be damned, Temperance. You're more important-- we're more important. Don't tell me you don't feel it too. Even you can't deny what's between us." His voice was dusky, seductive, demanding.

Her face softened further, her voice thickened with longing as she responded. "I don't deny it. How can I? You've made it impossible. I'd damn you for making me feel again if I didn't love you so much. But... Booth... it can't be." The depth of the sensations troubling her were apparent in her every expression.

His resolute demeanor hardened, his spine straightening further. His voice was almost harsh, even as it deepened and became more seductive. "If you love me, as you say that you do, then how can you live with that decision? This isn't partnership, Temperance. It's a sham, a lie, a pretense. Tell me, look me in the eye when you say it-- tell me that you're willing to go through each day pretending there's nothing more between us than friendship."

Her exhalation was ragged, her already fair skin paling as he confronted her. An aura of ineffable sadness surrounded her, and Cam felt her heart clench in sympathy. The anthropologist's next words were so passionate, so self-denying, that she finally knew what exactly it was Seeley saw in her. "It's not a question of willing, Booth. It's a question of must. Don't you see? If we give in to this, they'll force us apart, and then where will we be? I won't have you, I won't have our work either, and our victims will have no one to fight for them. They'll assign you some other partner, someone who can't back you up like I do. What if you're hurt, or killed again, this time for real? Then all that we have, at least now, will have been wasted. I'd rather have only part of you than lose all of you again, Booth. It nearly killed me to lose you the last time. I can't do it again. You can't ask that of me." Her expression was full of past grief remembered. Cam remembered, all over again, how it seemed each day after Seeley's death as though the anthropologist was fading from view, right in front of them.

Seeley ignored her plea that he leave the subject to rest. "Don't you think it doesn't nearly kill me each time you're in danger? Don't you think it practically killed me the last time, knowing that I hadn't told you how I felt, that you might never know? And yet, we work through it, Temperance. We have. We can. We will. You're wrong. I won't let them separate us. They have too much to lose, more than we do." His words were rushed, forceful, rasping, a veritable torrent of persuasion. Cam was certain that Brennan would yield to the onrush of words, accede to his passionate importunations, but it had almost the opposite effect.

Her eyes widened, and she put a hand up to his chest to stop his further approach. "They have too much to lose? More than we do? Then that's more than everything, because that's what you are to me. I can't do it," she said then, her voice cracking as she spoke, her eyes flashing. "I can't. You can't ask it of me." Tears were flowing freely down her alabaster cheeks, now, her stricken expression only highlighting her ethereal beauty. Cam had no doubt she spoke from the heart-- her voice was trembling with passion even as she tried to forswear him. Tears pricked Cam's eyes as she further recalled the woman's torment the last time. It would kill her if it happened again.

There was a long silence between them, the air between them fraught with anticipation, and tension, and need. His whole aspect bespoke fierce tenderness-- his determination to have her now rock-solid in the face of her trembling, passionate willingness to deny herself, if it would somehow keep him safe.

"I'm not asking you, I'm telling you," he said, moving in on her despite her hand on his chest. He moved closer still, clasping her to him, one hand at the small of her back pulling her hips flush with his, the other splaying between her shoulderblades. Her hand on his chest failed utterly to stop him from folding her into his virile embrace.

His dark imprecations continued. "I'm telling you," he repeated, as she gazed at him, wide-eyed, chest heaving with defeated longing, "I won't let them separate us-- no one will, no one can. I'm telling you, Temperance-- anyone who tries won't live to regret it. But I can't keep going on this way-- every moment I can't touch you, be with you, tears my heart into pieces. Don't you see? I'd rather have only one night with you fully, finally mine, as we're meant to be, and die the next day, than live the lie of pretending that all you are is my partner. You are my soulmate. I want the whole world to know. So tell me, Temperance, that you don't feel the same, and I'll leave you alone."

The sheer forceful need in his voice was enough to make Cam almost swoon, and his verbal assault had its intended result, as Brennan responded.

"I can't!" she cried, her face a welter of passionate need and self-denial, as she feebly tried to push him away, tried to avert her eyes from his intense, loving gaze. "You know I can't lie to you. Without you, there is nothing-- but I'm not strong enough, Booth. You're not just the other half of my heart-- you're the whole of it. When yours stops beating, mine does. When your lungs cease their breathing, mine lose all their air."

Cam forgot at times that the doctor was an accomplished authoress, but her fraught, poetic response to his demand was in keeping with that part Cam now realized most often remained hidden at the lab-- though there'd been flickering glimpses of some underlying, creative passion the time Seeley was taken and the anthropologist had driven them all to find him, then rushed off to rescue him. This was what Seeley must see in her all the time, away from prying, unkind, judging eyes. Cam regretted anew every thought she ever had that the woman was cold-- she had passion and more to meet Seeley's own.

He still held her clasped to him, his muscular arms encompassing her as his gaze scorched her, captured her eyes with his heat. Despite all his control in other areas, Cam could see he was quick approaching his limit with Brennan. "We are at an impasse, then, Temperance," he said, his voice lowering, almost a guttural growl. "I'll die if I can't have all of you, and you'll die if you can't have any of me, however little."

Her eyes fluttered shut as he spoke, her only answer a faint, whispered "yes," as her head sagged forward, coming to rest on his chest. Her response was so quiet that Cam saw its shape on her pale, trembling lips more than she heard it, and her heart broke for the two of them, especially Brennan. Seeley was a man of action, used to doing what he thought was needed to achieve his desired result. Her whole life, in contrast, had been built on the premise of doing without-- his forcing her to reject him might even break her. Seeley saw it, then, even as Cam thought it herself-- and took action, made it impossible for her to reject him.

Bending his head until his mouth was alongside her ear, his voice a velvet caress, he whispered "Temperance, tell me you don't want this, and I'll stop. I'll respect your request-- but you have to tell me." With those words of demand, his hand at her shoulders clasped her further to him, his face turning into her neck to trail kiss after kiss down to the collar of her coat. With the first press of his lips to her skin, she whimpered, her head falling to the side to allow him further access. His hand at her shoulders made its way to her nape, his long, masculine fingers weaving into her hair, pressing and pulling her head back so he could adorn the front of her throat with devoted, passionate kisses and nips of his mouth.

"Seeley," she moaned faintly, the hand at his chest now clasping his bicep, either to hold on for dear life, or to make another feeble attempt to push him away. Cam couldn't tell, and wasn't sure if the anthropologist could, either.

"Tell me you don't want this, Temperance," he demanded again, before pulling her head back so she had no choice but to stare his hammering need for her straight in the face. He was testing her sorely. She was close to the breaking point, and she trembled violently, her knees actually giving way in the face of his implacable desire. Fear warred with unbounded love in her eyes, even as her heart warred with her hard-earned experience that all things came to an end, the better things sooner than others.

As she sagged under the onslaught of his unflagging, relentless pursuit, his arms clasped her even more tightly, bearing her slight form easily, the weight of her meaningless to him in the strength of the moment. "Oh, Seeley, please," she cried, the sound of her heart breaking audible in every word.

He took pity on her then-- Cam could see him deciding-- and he acted for both of them. "Silence means assent, Temperance," he whispered, before claiming her mouth for the most passionate, most tender, most fierce, most all-consuming kiss Cam had ever seen in her life. The calm, strong Seeley she thought she knew was nothing, compared to this man. Never before, she realized now, had she seen him in a true, honest moment of passion, whose desire and intentions burned so strongly that it would be impossible to breathe around him.

His heat had the desired effect. Temperance melted under his mouth, her body molding under his hands as he pulled her yet closer while his mouth plundered hers. The hand not already clasping his muscular arm made its way to his jacket lapel, her fingers splaying and grasping at the fabric as Seeley's lips and tongue continued to claim her. He moved them away from the table where she'd been performing her work, until he'd backed her against an empty examination table. When she came into contact with the cold metal object, his hand at her back let her go, travelling up to grasp the side of her face as his hand at her nape still held her mouth to his.

Cam was gasping for air as she watched, trying to keep silent her shock and her own responsive desire as the need between the two of them resonated even with her. She had to keep quiet. She couldn't interrupt them. She had to let Seeley finish convincing Dr. Brennan, or it would be fatal to both of them-- she knew that now, understood it finally. The rest unfolded as if it were on film, or as if Cam were plunged into its midst, able to read the thoughts of each willing participant-- certainly their body language conveyed each thought and emotion, as each bared themselves completely to the other.

Their mouths finally parted, as he held her face in his hands, gazing down at her with limitless love and desire. He spoke no further words to her, then-- her silence was assent, and he moved now to claim her. Lifting her up at the waist until she was seated on the edge of the table, he pulled her in for another passionate kiss with one hand, even as the other quickly and surely unbuttoned the lab coat over her regular clothing. Even as their mouths melded, he slipped the sleeves of her coat from her arms, until the blue fabric puddled under her, a carpet upon which she sat in the midst of cold metal.

He continued in silence, removing her white silken blouse to reveal her paler, even more silken skin beneath. She was luminous, the purest aspect of womanhood set forth before him, each curve of breast and waist, each plane of toned muscle at arm and at stomach the epitome of all his desires. He unclasped her bra and cast it aside even as she pushed his suitjacket off of his shoulders. The decision taken from her, she was now as determined to take what she'd so long been denied for herself. Her nimble small fingers found and undid each button on his well-tailored dress shirt, tugged and slid off his tie even as he lifted her at the wait while he tugged her pants and shoes from her. He was laving her belly and chest with sucking kisses as she worked at his belt, and he paused long enough from his hand's exploration of her silken topography to remove his own pants, kicking free of all remaining fabric encumbrances keeping them from one another.

Where she was white, curved, luminous and almost ethereal, he was hard, bronzed and sculpted, and as solid as the earth beneath them. They were two different schools of aesthetics, each perfect in their own way, each admiring the other. Her dexterous slender fingers explored him as he pushed her back onto the table, then crawled up over her, tasting her with his mouth as he went, toe to head, acquainting himself with each inch of her body. She sighed and whimpered as his hot mouth and calloused strong hands roamed over her, and his skin shuddered under her touch as her nimble hands made acquaintance with his solid masculine perfection. Her warm satin mouth pressed against what parts of him she could reach, as she craned to maximize her body's contact with his.

He paused in his slow worship of her body to kiss her again, one arm slipping under her back to clasp their chests to one another. Though the scene should have been profane, or bizarre, the sight of the two making love on the otherwise clinical steel of the examination table had a sense of rightness about it-- as if she was letting him in past her last barrier. Her long white toned arms clasped him to her, one hand at his nape holding his mouth to her as the other hand traced the cut lines of his shoulders and back. Their bodies writhed against one another, seeking the other's heat, though for what seemed like hours from an outsider's perspective, all they did was kiss and allow their skin maximum contact, her foot drawing its way up the back of his perfectly muscled leg and sculpted buttocks, his hands roaming the curves of her breasts and her hips as each sighed and shuddered under the touch of the other.

Finally, he broke away from her mouth and resumed his worship of her. His mouth found its way to her full, milky breasts, sucking her in as if she were the world's greatest sustenance. She gasped, arcing into him, her eyes snapping open as his tongue on her sensistized flesh circled and sucked at her, sending urgent spikes of desire through her. He continued his passionate onslaught, his devoted attentions to her breasts equally divided, until she was arcing and crying his first name in increasingly desperate tones. Only then did he shift his attentions downward, though one hand remained at her breasts, caressing her lightly with fingertips brushes and light squeezes as his mouth trailed its way first to suck and swirl at her navel, then descend on her core.

Throughout, her hands splayed and plucked at him, stoking the fire already raging in him when he first claimed her mouth in his. Eash brush of her fingers was fuel to the fire, each sigh and whimper a new piece of tinder, a new blast of the bellows. Her call of his name was all he ever wanted to hear, the tone of need and love and desire in her voice what he had longed to hear. That she was finally his did not weaken him-- the knowledge of it, rather, made him stronger.

As he settled himself between her legs, his erect length stiffening further as her incredible scent enveloped him, his hands settled themselves on her, determined to hold her in place while he tasted her. He ached to give her so much pleasure that she lost speech, lost all sense of herself except for what he could give her. He set to work.

Her silken skin, already flushed the palest pink, bloomed to the most incredible rose as his tongue met her core. She cried out wordlessly as he gave her the most intimate of kisses, then cried again as he brought all his skill and love to bear in pleasuring her. All other women before her were meaningless, and under his hands and his mouth, all prior lovers crumbled to ash in her memory. They remade one another, as she moaned under the sucking, lapping, nipping, curling actions of his tongue and his lips, and she responded to him as if he was made to her. When she finally came, his hands pressed her down into the table as he continued to suck at her, preventing her from pulling away before he coaxed another climax from her.

She was astonished, stunned at her body's reaction to him, his mastery of her every sensation despite the fact that this was their first joining. She had never felt so cherished, and it stole her breath even as his tongue and hands on her forced shrieks and moans of ecstasy from her. She heard herself begging, finally, for him to join with her, her voice calling "I can't be without you any longer" in a tone of such desparate need that it seemed to come from someone other than her.

His mouth left her then as he resettled himself around and over her, one hand seizing her chin gently as he looked down at her. "You are everything," he whispered huskily, and panting, she agreed. "Everything, Seeley. Forever." They were the only words he needed. He shifted, one arm coming under her to clasp her against him as he braced himself on his knees, poising himself at her entrance. One last look in her eyes told him there would be no regrets, only promise, in the aftermath of their joining, and he surged into her with all the force of his need for her.

They both called the other's name out in shock at the end of his thrust, as he filled her completely, and she took him completely into her. It was if neither ever knew the meaning of home before now. Her arms were clasped tightly around him, her legs cradling him to her, and as he slowly withdrew and returned, she cried out, head back, at the sensation. Tears fell from her eyes even as they started streaming from his, a mix of joy and astonishment and longing now relieved overflowing from them as their bodies took over, joining them in a dance nearly as old as the stars winking in through the laboratory windows.

It was a dance like no one had ever seen before, one of such passionate completion and abandon that all joinings but theirs would forever pale in comparison-- though no one would ever know, because this was a sacred dance between two souls, meant only for the other. When they completed their steps, each cried out at the same time, ending as they began with a call of shocked amazement and wonder. They lay there long moments, eyes shuttered from the force of their loving, until they fell back to earth, and slowly returned to themselves. There were caressess, and endearments, and expressions of wonder, before they collected themselves and their belongings, and left together, the silence of the lab now like that of a cathedral after a worship service.

Cam sat back, stunned, barely able to breathe. She had just been witness to as close as she'd ever come to a religious experience. She'd never seen two people so in love-- in some ways hadn't even believed such a thing was possible, before now. She could never tell anyone, either. It would be an obscene violation of something so private, so tender, so all-encompassing to the two partners, that there was no way of expressing it. She laid her head back, resting against the chair's cushion, as she reflected. She would have the weekend to compose herself before she saw them again. She would do what she could to honor their love, however they chose to express it hereafter. What she had witnessed was too beautiful not to.

-----------------

Cam woke with a jerk, and noted the time blinking on her computer. Almost two o'clock in the morning on Saturday. She groaned. She'd fallen asleep at her desk, and had the strangest, most unprofessional dream. She sat up slowly, groaning again as she looked into the trash and at the face-down paperback on her desk, the picture of a virile man ripping the bodice of a fainting woman on its cover. That was the last time she had chinese food and read a trashy romance novel in her office while she was trying to wait Dr. Brennan out on one of these Friday nights. Screw feeling like a slacker-- that last dream proved she had entirely too much time on her hands to read trashy novels, rather than doing what she ought to be doing, which was putting all those overblown smutty thoughts into action with someone of her own. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment as she recalled some of the more vivid details of her dream. Seeley she could see dreaming about-- after all, she'd slept with the man and he was an incredible lover. But for her to have such an explicit dream involving Dr. Brennan troubled her deeply. The two partners were consummate professionals, and Cam clearly needed a much better social life if her Friday nights were beginning to involve smutty dreams about her ex-boyfriend and her nominal employee. No woman could look that perfect under that lab coat, at least not the way Cam had dreamt her.

She shut down her computer and gathered her purse and her coat, passing by the platform in her travel to the door. She drew even with the exam table where, in her dream, Temperance and Seeley had at long last consummated their passion, and shook her head at her crazy imagination. The movement of it caused her to pause, though, and she looked, jaw dropping open. Pooled at the foot of the table, underneath and out of sight to anyone not standing at eye level like she was, lay a necktie and a demicup bra-- intertwined, completely entangled, wrapped up in each other.

_**Anyone remember the S2 episode where Cam admits that she doesn't read Brennan's books, because she prefers bodice rippers? This little smut one off was an outgrowth of that.**_


	2. Provocation

Provocation

_"Bones, do you want me to fuck you?" he asked, his voice and eyes equally dark._

I couldn't breathe-- could hardly remember, now, how I came to be backed up against the wall of his living room, what part of the fight had started it all. It was the usual-- his impassioned response to something at work, my cool rationality-- at odds with each other, again. I hadn't even intended to stay-- I'd only meant to drop off paperwork at the end of a long day for both of us.

Yet somehow he'd pinned me here, arms braced on either side of my body, as he said conversationally "Sometimes I think you do it on purpose-- provoke me. You want me to make you feel something you'd never allow yourself to feel on your own, don't you?"

I somehow found my voice, albeit a breathless one. "Booth, don't be ridiculous."

His eyes glinted. "Oh, I'm not mocking, Temperance. I'm deadly serious, believe me."

His eyes raked me appreciatively then, the heat of his body palpable, as I soaked up his heated regard like the dry earth welcomes rain. I could feel myself responding to him, even as my feminist side was enraged by his sudden aggression, his frankly approving sexual appraisal.

I tried speaking again. "I can see that you're serious-- I don't question that. But you're wrong that I'm trying to provoke you. I would never do that on purpose." My voice sounded weak, even to me. I was telling the truth, though. I'd seen him in action too much to ever try to provoke him intentionally-- I knew what he was capable of under almost every circumstance. Except this one, with me pinned between him and the wall. This, I had no empirical evidence of from which to posit an eventual outcome.

He looked at me searchingly, his expression the one he has right before he explains to a suspect why they've done what they're now being called to account for. I had a flashback to our first real fight, at the gun range, during Cleo Eller's case. We'd been in almost the same physical position we were in now, and after I pushed back at him, verbally, he backed off. This time, however, he only nodded slightly after I spoke.

"You're right-- you don't do it on purpose. But you still provoke me, Temperance. And I still think you want me to make you feel things you would never allow yourself on your own." He leant in even further, his breath hot in my face.

I was shocked. I'd expected him to back off by now, but he didn't seem to want to go anywhere. I didn't know if I wanted him to go anywhere, either. There was no question the man was infuriating. Always poking at me to feel, to respond, to put my reaction out where he could see it. He had no idea how much I really felt, under my calm outward demeanor. He had no idea how I really responded, inside, where no one could call me to task for unprofessional yearnings. But I couldn't let him know. He was overprotective enough when he didn't know that I loved him, or whatever other overblown word he might use to define the fact that there was no air or color when he died those two weeks. Of course, he'd probably be right, the damnable man. But if I told him, it would only be worse-- the next bullet he took for me would be the last one, and that would kill me as much as it killed him. So I did what I do best, though I pretend like I don't know I'm doing it to everyone else. I denied it.

"You're flattering yourself," I shot back, even as I steeled myself against the fact that his proximity was melting my spine.

"Am I?" He looked amused, arch even, as he leant there unmoving, his tone almost casual even as his voice was low and dangerously sexy. Booth was dangerous everything-- physically, mentally, emotionally dangerous. My body knew it, and craved it. Craved him.

He continued speaking, as relentless as during any interrogation. "What is it you always say about biological urges, Bones? The respirations and the heart beat speed up? The skin becomes heated and flushed? The pupils dilate as dopamine and norepinephrine begin to flow through the system?" His tone was seductive even as he parroted back my speech about there being no such thing as love.

"You're a bastard," I bit out.

"Maybe," he said, removing one hand from where he leant on the wall to lay one hot, calloused fingertip on the pulse at the base of my throat. "But I'm the bastard making your respirations and heart beat speed up," he said, then trailed his finger down, pressing firmly, to the last button open above my cleavage. He pushed the fabric aside slightly, frankly admiring the swell of my breasts, then looked back at me, a smirk at the edge of his mouth. "I also believe I detect a slight hint of pink over your sternum, Temperance. And though the light right here's not the best, I could swear your pupils weren't quite so wide just a minute ago." He was amused. The bastard was playing with me.

"It's just biology, Booth. Like I said, don't flatter yourself." It was the biggest lie I'd ever told in my life, and he knew it, but I'd be damned if I would let him think he could bully me like this. "I can satisfy my biological urges anywhere."

His eyes flashed, something even more dark and dangerous entering his expression. "You keep telling me that. And yet, Temperance, I wouldn't be wrong in saying it's been months since you went on a date, much less satisfied those unholy urges of yours. Seems to me like somewhere inside that hyperrational brain of yours, something wants more. Maybe even more than that bullshit surrogate relationship crap we both threw back at Sweets."

He had me completely to rights, and my mouth dried, my breath hitching. His eyes narrowed-- he sensed victory. I knew that expression, though this was a more lustful, more intimate variant of the one he wore when a suspect confessed, or gave off that telltale, damning signal. Who knew what showed on my face-- whatever it was, he smiled wickedly, his baritone voice deepening, velvet and husky as he spoke again.

"The question is, and this is what I wonder, the thing you're going to have to help me out with, is _what kind_ of more you want." He paused, his eyes raking me again, as I once more steeled my knees under me, desperate now not to let him see how quickly he'd reduced me to some quivering romance novel heroine, limbs trembling and bosom heaving with desire. Bastard. I kept silent. If he wanted a response, he was going to have to work harder.

He was up to the challenge, and his next words undid me.

"Bones, do you want me to fuck you?" he asked, his voice low and caressing. Somehow, from him, the crass term took on deeper meaning, transformed from something vulgar and cheap to something dark and utterly satisfying. "Or do you want me to make love to you, Temperance? Neither of those is about biological urges. It's about want, Bones, lust so desperate you have to keep going until the other person surrenders. It's about love, Temperance, so overwhelming that you'll drown in it unless you grab hold of the other person and never let go. Which is it? Because believe me, I can do both. I know _I_ want to. I fuck like a pro, Bones, and I make love like you wouldn't believe, Temperance. But _you_ have to say what you want."

His exhaled declaration created a vacuum, sucking the breath from me. I was stifled by his presence, unable to form a coherent response. The finger still resting firmly at the dip into the valley of my breasts began to trace again upwards, this time lightly and teasingly, until it returned to the base of my throat, pressing lightly against the pulse hammering there. He looked at me a moment longer, seeing right through me. He pushed away only so long as it took him to grasp the back of my neck in his hand as he pressed up against me, crushing me between him and the wall as our lips crashed together.

Our kiss at Christmas had been a slow-dawning surprise, leaving at least me feeling flustered afterward. But Caroline Julian's presence kept it from proceeding any further than my realization that the man had the most delicious mouth I'd ever tasted, the most supple, talented lips I'd ever had the misfortune to kiss. This kiss was different-- a sudden, full body jolt of electricity, every nerve ending demanding he do it again. I groaned into his mouth, unable to help myself, as my arms came up to his, grabbing hold to keep myself from drowning in him. It was both. Lust and love, all inextricable.

His tongue plundered my mouth as I bit at his lower lip, drawing it into my mouth to nibble and suck at even as his tongue stole my breath. His own groan echoed mine as my body molded itself to him, each of us tearing our mouths apart, panting for air at the same time.

"What do you want? Temperance? Bones?" he near growled, the juxtaposition of the two names he called me making it all my choice despite the fact that I couldn't have pushed past him at this point even if I wanted to. The wall and his hands were the only things keeping me standing.

"Both. Everything. You." I panted.

His blatantly vulgar and sexual eloquence left him then, his lips crashing back onto mine. I grabbed the collar of his shirt, holding him to me as his body slammed once again into mine, pressing me back into the wall. His hips ground into mine, his hands coming to span my ribs under my breasts, his thumbs stroking firmly across my already taut nipples. Even through the silk of my blouse and my bra his heat burned me. I ground my hips back into his, bringing one leg up and around the back of his rock-hard thighs to hook him closer to me. He growled into my mouth, the rumbling vibration of it in his throat and his upper chest palpable under my hands as I broke off the kiss to gasp air like I was drowning. Breathing accomplished, I nipped and sucked at his prominentia laryngea, before continuing my path up the line of his throat and along the line of his jaw. His stubble rasped like garnet paper under my tongue.

"You ought to be fucking illegal, you're so goddamned hot, Bones," he rasped in my ear, before claiming the lobe in his mouth, sucking hard without tenderness. Lust until the other surrenders it was-- but I wasn't going down without taking him with me. His even pearled teeth, so often bared in that charm smile of his, were now biting sharply down the side of my neck, each pinch as he nipped at my flesh more pleasure than pain. I let go of the collar of his shirt, circling my arms around his back to tug his shirt out of his pants, so I could dig my fingers and nails into the smooth hot skin and firm muscles of his upper gluteus maximus under his belt and his waistband. He flexed at the contact, grinding his hips again into mine as the muscles rippled and tensed under my hands. I pulled the rest of his shirt out of his pants, sliding my hands up the defined planes of his back under the fabric. His own hands tugged at my blouse, pulling the hem from my skirt until it was free. From anyone else it would be artless for him to tug sharply at both sides of my blouse, until the buttons popped and the sides parted, baring my chest to him, but from him, it was just another thing to steal the breath from me. My hands worked their way to the front of his shirt and I began to unbutton the fabric even as he pushed far enough away from me to slide one hand up under my skirt, where it had ridden up when I wrapped my leg around him.

"You have no fucking idea what you do to me," he said, as his hand under my skirt wrapped around my hip, pushing me back again into the wall.

"Tell me," I said, panting, as I finally managed the last button on his shirt, pushed it back off his shoulders, somehow unknotted the rest of the tie that hung, loosened, when he first let me into his apartment.

He let go of me long enough to shrug out of his shirt and pull his own undershirt off, the deep broad vee of his shoulders tapering to his lean waist and hips making me marvel all over again at how perfectly structured he was. Each muscle was perfectly defined, just the right shape and development-- an anatomy or artists' class would find it impossible to view a more outstanding specimen. He was beautiful-- it was the only word for it.

His shirt removed, he turned his attention back to me, even as I frankly admired him. "Like what you see?" he said, no sign of a smirk on his face as he advanced on me again.

"Very much," I managed to say, as I pulled him back into me, running my hands over the expanse of his back even as he reached in and picked me up until I had no choice-- I could wrap my legs around him, or fall. I chose not to fall.

"Good," he growled. "Because I'm the last man you're going to see undressed, Temperance. I'm the best, the only man you're ever going to have." As he spoke, the hand not grasping me tightly at the waist pushed my skirt the rest of the way up, until all that separated us was the already soaking-wet scrap of lilac silk I'd put on this morning. He lowered his head to my breast, sucking me through the thin fabric of my bra, even as his fingers stroked the length of my folds through my underwear. That bolt of electricity from when we first kissed shot through me again as his long, heated fingers traced the length of me, pressing the fabric against me, deep against my slickening folds. His mouth moved to my other breast even as I tightened my hold around his shoulders and neck. I bit his perfect deltoid just as his fingers pushed the fabric shielding my core to the side, and he entered me forcefully with his fingers even as my teeth sank into his flesh, harder than I'd intended. But the shock of another lightning bolt of sensation at his entering me made my response almost involuntary. He grunted, but only sucked at me harder, his teeth worrying the fabric covering my painfully taut nipples as his fingers began to stroke in and out of me. The hand at my waist curling behind me and holding me up dug into me strongly, his fingertips digging deep into my flesh. Though it was only pleasurable sensation, I was sure there would be marks tomorrow.

His fingers pumped in and out of me, filling me each time with such heat that I believed for the first time in spontaneous combustion. I arched against him, my walls cramping for more of him, but he held me there, fucking me slowly with his hand as his tongue tormented me through the fabric of my bra. I was already awash in sensation when he added his thumb to the mix, rubbing my clitoris almost painfully hard through the silk of my underwear.

He has callouses on the inside of his trigger finger and middle finger, where so many years of holding a gun led to thickened, rough ridges. Each one twisting against me was a tormenting pleasure, and the ridges on the pad of his thumb as he rubbed it against me were another layer of torturous stimulation of my heated, sensitized skin. His possessive assertions should have angered me, but I seemed to be going the full romance heroine route, because the look in his eye as he said it made my walls flutter, my thighs clench until he boosted me up to expose me to him. I dug my nails into the back of his neck and his shoulders as he continued to manipulate me, his hands and mouth so hard and yet slow that my breaths came in ragged gasps, my body reduced to four pinpoints of sensation-- each nipple as he sucked and bit at me, my aching walls as his fingers spread and twisted in me, my clitoris as his thumb passed almost randomly over me, rubbing me hard before stopping to drag back under the fabric, only long enough to dip into my wetness that was seeping from me, coating his hand, before rubbing me firmly again.

His head finally rose from my breath as his hand continued his inexorable movements inside me. "Every single goddamned time you wore a skirt, I wanted to do this to you, feel how tight and wet you are, find out how long it would take to make you beg." His look was determined, and dangerous, and despite the fact that I was already so completely aroused that he could probably get me off by just breathing one more time, I taunted him, unable to help myself, now that we'd crossed so far over that line of his that we'd never find our way back. I didn't want to, certainly. This time I provoked him intentionally, wanting, needing desperately to see what he'd do in response.

"I don't beg," I panted.

"We'll see about that," he said, increasing the rate of his two fingers in me to an almost feverish pace, the strokes on my clitoris bearing down so firmly that I almost felt like I was turning to clay in his hands. My head slammed back into the wall as he pumped harder into me, but I kept silent but for the ragged gasps that were the only breath I could draw. "Beg," he said, then, withdrawing his hand only long enough to tug my underwear away completely, then thrust three fingers into me. I heard myself grunt in surprise, my walls cramping around him, demanding release. I managed to keep myself to wordless moans as I dripped all over his hand, managing with the last scrap of will in me not to say his name, or say "please," or "Oh God" or "Fuck" or any other verbalization he could take as a plea.

His own chest was heaving as he fought for air. Though I had no doubt he could hold me there, pinned to the wall for hours without his muscles faltering, I could tell my responses affected him. Though I panted between each word, I managed to speak.

"I bet you dreamed of me sucking you blind," I gasped, deliberately crass to match his own earlier vulgarity. His fingers slammed back into me firmly. "How many times did you jerk off to the thought of my going down on you in the truck, Seeley," I managed, before moaning again as his thumb pressed against my burning, sensitized clitoris. His eyes were closed in concentration as I taunted him, his hand increasing its pace, his fingers curling and twisting so inventively that I was amazed my head hadn't exploded.

"I bet you've thought of having me everywhere, haven't you," I groaned. His eyes snapped open as his hand slammed into me again, and that dangerous look of earlier was back, tenfold.

"You're goddamned right, I did," he growled, dropping me to the floor, pulling his hand from my core even as he tugged my skirt off, then the rest of my clothes. My knees wobbled. My hands shook as I fumbled at his belt buckle, and he pushed my hands away long enough to do it himself, stepping out of his clothing and shoes so quickly I was amazed, even as I drew my breath in at the full sight of him naked. His legs and buttocks were perfectly formed, but his arousal was astonishing-- freed of the confines of his pants, his was the single largest manhood I'd ever seen, and my thighs clenched, my walls cramped, and my nipples tightened in response to the visual proof of his need for me. He advanced on me, and I let him almost reach me before I reached between us and grasped him in my hand. He stopped immediately, groaning "Fuck, Bones," as I stroked him once, then gasped as I dropped to my knees and took him into my mouth. I dug my fingers into the flexed musculature of his behind as I sucked at him, the other hand braced on the front of his thigh as I slid him out of my mouth, then took him as far in again as I could.

"Beg," I said, pulling away from him long enough to look up at him. His eyes were closed, his face a rictus of concentration, and no wonder. His scrotum tightened as soon as I took him into my mouth, so quickly that I was surprised at his control. Most other men drawn that tight would have exploded by then. He didn't bother to respond, other than to gasp again as I scraped my teeth down his length as I sucked him in again. I took up a rhythm almost as slow and as hard as the one he set with me, my mouth sliding the length of him, my hands holding on to him as my tongue stroked across the head of his shaft. I sucked at him and pushed at his meatus repeatedly, until he gasped "Oh, Jesus, Fuck" as I pulled my cheeks in particularly strongly around him. I'd gained my balance, and circled the base of his shaft with my thumb and my forefinger, squeezing him hard like a cock ring as I continued to suck at him. Releasing all but his glans from my mouth, I kneaded his scrotum firmly and carefully, the muscles of his back and legs jumping as he struggled to stay standing. I let him go with a hard, sucking pop, then licked the length of him even as my hand continued to manipulate him. I allowed my thumb to push firmly down on his perineum as I wrapped my other hand around his length, then began to stroke him with my hand even as I leant forward and bit into his ilia.

That did it. "Holy god, Bones," he groaned, hauling me up and carrying me over toward his sofa, even as he picked up his pants and dropped them over the back. "You're going to scream for me if it's the last thing I do," he said, stopping and flipping me until I was facing away from him, my upper half resting over the back of the sofa. "You might want to hang on," he rasped, as his fingers entered me again, literally grasping me from within as his thumb worked feverishly at my clitoris. He soon reduced me to whimpers, and I was glad for the support of the furniture as my knees started to wobble. I could hear him fumbling for something in his pants in between my wordless moans, and the slight snicking sound of tearing foil confirmed my suspicions.

He was talented, though, and hisvfingers never stopped moving as he shifted his weight while he rolled on the condom. He had me literally in the palm of his hand, and once his attention was no longer divided, his other hand came back under my waist, to pull me up off my feet, my back flush with his chest. Gravity pulled my weight down onto his hand, pushing him further inside me as I gained my feet under me. The sensation of fullness was almost unbearable, and then his other hand grasped my breast firmly, his fingers rolling my nipple tightly between them as his fingers within me curled again. It was too much, all at once, and I screamed as an orgasm seized me and blinded me, my knees giving way utterly. His hand at my chest pulled me tight against him even as his fingers and thumb continued to push up into me, and I screamed again as another wracking climax seized me.

I don't know how long he held me, dangling like a rag doll as his hand kept tormenting me, but eventually I had to give in and beg him to stop so I could breathe. "Oh, God, Seeley, no more," I moaned. "Please." I wailed as another painful contraction pulsed through me, my body no longer under my control.

"You don't stop coming until I say you do," he growled in my ear, but his fingers within me started to slow even as he bore down harder across my clitoris with one last firm spread of his fingers. I shrieked from my release, even as his hand left me, and he turned me to seat me on the back of the sofa.

He pulled me flush against him, our sweating, heaving chests in contact as I flopped forward, unable for the moment to muster any muscle control of my own. I thought he was affording me respite, then, but I was wrong. Even as he looped my arms up onto his shoulders, he stepped in between my legs, his heavy erection brushing the side of my thigh as he pushed my legs widely apart. His hand dragged once again across the outside of my folds, and I cried out at the thought of enduring another round of his hands drawing such exquisitely painful orgasms from me.

"Bones, do you want me to fuck you?" he asked again, his voice dark even as his own breath gasped in my ear. His thumb hovered poised, just inside my entrance. "_You_ have to say what you want, Bones. Tell me what you want," he said, then lowered his head to suck at my throat, his fingers beginning to part my folds again. I could feel him rock hard with tension under my hands, but I had no doubt he would maintain control over himself until I gave in.

I moaned almost like an animal as one finger slipped inside me again, lightly. "No, Booth, oh, please, oh, don't, I can't," I babbled. "Oh, please, fuck me Booth." His inhalation was a harsh, ragged gasp, but his finger caressed me just once before slipping out again, sliding lightly across my clitoris one last time. I whimpered at the touch, and his harsh breathing in my ear as he clasped my chest to him became even more ragged. "You were made for me, Bones," he groaned, as he stepped back and held on to me with one hand as he poised himself at my entrance. "So fucking perfect," he panted, as the tip of him entered me, my walls greedily grasping him, needing him all the way inside. Slowly, so slowly that I whimpered again, he filled me, a pained look on his face as he held back to draw it out as long as possible. Finally, though, he was all the way inside me, and I squeezed him from the inside, all the while gasping again at how thick and hard and long he was. "Christ, Temperance," he grunted, as I squeezed him again, amazed at the way he utterly filled me. He bucked out of me then, and my arms hanging loosely over his shoulders closed on him, determined to hang on for the next part. I managed to open my eyes, aroused all over again at the look of overwhelming lust and more on his face, the way his jaw clenched as he struggled for self control. He slammed back into me again even as I pulled my legs up, balancing myself on the edge of his sofa, opening myself wider until I was completely exposed to him.

"Oh God, Jesus fuck," he groaned as he buried himself to the hilt in me, "so fucking perfect."

Somehow I mustered the breath and the muscle control to tighten my hands on him, and leant away until he slipped partly out of me as I said "Like what you see, Seeley? Like what you feel?" His eyes, heavy lidded, bore into mine as I threw his words back at him. "You know I do," he rumbled, his hands at my hips pulling me back to him, and grunting as he filled me again. My head fell back of its own accord as his glans snugged up against my cervix, the contact hard and yet stimulating. He started a slow, measured pace, and I arched against him, meeting each thrust, each inch of him filling and stretching me as I strove with him and squeezed him again with my walls. I began to lose my toehold on the edge of his couch, and shifted again until I could wrap my legs around his waist, the new position dragging a groan from me as he filled me again.

We continued, each of us becoming increasingly breathless as we each started to cling to the other, holding on for dear life, and I moaned when he filled me with one particularly deep thrust. "Oh my God, Seeley, so... close" I continued.

One of his hands at my waist slid to my lower back as he bucked out and slammed into me again, my walls aching and cramping again in prelude to my release, his hand at my back pressing me to him further as he did it again, increasing his pace. I hung on, losing the rhythm of arching back into him. I instead let myself be filled, taken over by his thrusting heat, his gasped breaths in my ear, the strength of his arms and legs around and against me. He was pushing both of us over the edge, and I felt myself tightening further even as he did. He lost his own rhythm then, and his thrusts became almost frantic. My climax came suddenly, a shock taking over my body as I stiffened and screamed. He kept hammering into me, groaning and grunting "Jesus, fuck, Bones" as he did so, his continued strokes driving another climax from me. I shrieked again, barely over my last orgasm, and with a deafening, wordless roar, he slammed back into me one last time, coming with an incredibly forceful series of pulses inside me. They prompted another aftershock to ride through me, and I moaned weakly as it crested over me, joining my last two orgasms to render me utterly limp against him.

He stood there, his head next to mine as he panted and gasped in my ear, his hands pulling me further against him until the sweat covering us both suctioned us together. It seemed an eternity as our hearts hammered against one another, until I finally regained some semblance of breath and I spoke.

"You do fuck like a pro, Booth. How soon until I can provoke you into making love?"

His head came up as he barked a laugh, looking at me to see I was serious. I clasped the side of his face and pulled him in for a kiss, and incredible man, I felt him thicken within me as our tongues tangled together.

"I guess that's my answer," I said, as he laughed again, withdrawing from me and scooping me up in his arms, heading back toward his bedroom.

"Like you're not going to believe, Temperance," he promised. I hoped so. I planned on provoking him every chance that I got.


	3. Scully and Mulder Can Bite Me

_**So—this one comes from my being sure that as romantic and respectful of Brennan's intellect and talents as Booth is, he's still just a guy inside his own head. Accordingly, I present you an internal monologue, Booth's POV this time, when our favorite crimefighting duo finally get it on. Crass language ensues. Hot, smutty sex, too. Enjoy.**_

* * *

_What? You want me to spit in my hand? We're Scully and Mulder.  
I don't know what that means. _

------------------------------------------------------------

This new deal, this new partnership thing? The one that replaced our old one? It happened by accident, I swear. Really, it _was_ an accident. I accidentally ogled her breasts too long, and she caught me looking at her when she looked up from examining her remains. She stared at me a moment, smirked, then bent back to work. I made sure to look only at the cold dead body, not the hot live one, for the rest of the day. But I could swear, though, later that day, that she checked out my ass when I bent over to get something from the truck. When I looked back at her, though, she just smirked again, then turned back to tell something to Geier.

So I didn't bother to hide the way I like to watch her walk in front of me, and get this—she looked over her shoulder, winked, and swayed that ass of hers even harder.

I knew it was asking for trouble, but I escalated it the next day, when I brushed the side of her breast as I helped her on with her coat. She got me back in the elevator at the Hoover, patting my ass as she squeezed past me to get off at our floor. I didn't bother to hide it when I hung back just to watch those hips sway away. She looked over her shoulder, and winked again. Then licked her lips. Fuck me, Bones. I mean, please, fuck me, Bones.

I outright cupped her ass in my hand pulling her up out of a pit where she'd been doing a recovery. She squeezed both cheeks of my ass in the elevator at work again.

She breathed in my ear as she bent over my shoulder to sign a report, her breasts brushing my shoulder, burning me through the fabric. God, she's so fucking hot.

I ran my finger up her bare skin and under her shirt in the crowded elevator at the Hoover, but she got me back right away, allowing the crowd to push her right back into my hips as she ground into me. I had to stop in the bathroom for five minutes to think about dead bodies before our appointment with Sweets.

She stopped at my house to drop off some files when I knew she had an appointment to go to, so I answered the door in a towel. She just winked, licked her lips and turned, swaying that magnificent ass of hers off on those high heeled boots and a pair of painted-on jeans.

When I stopped over to drop off some files on the way to picking up Parker for Mass, she answered the door in the shortest red silk robe I've seen in my life, those long white legs of hers disappearing so temptingly that I had to skip communion that day. Those legs, so fucking long and pure white, holy Christ. Even he would have needed confession.

She brushed my cock through my pants the next time I lent her a hand up out of a ditch at a recovery, and before I could brush her breast with my hand. Minx. I stuck my tongue in her ear when I let her into the truck.

She performed fellatio on French fries. I licked the rest of my chocolate milkshake off my top lip. She ate a bite of my pie with such apparent delight, rolling the fruit against the side of her cheek, that I had to go to the bathroom for seven minutes and think about dead bodies some more.

I pretended to trip and landed, hands on her breasts, on top of her on her couch in her office. She got me back, tripping on her way out from under me, somehow landing on top of me, stroking me through my pants several times. I was rock hard for hours as I sat doing goddamned paperwork in her office, and she just smirked at me every time she looked over, while I pulled more files over my lap as squints kept insisting on coming in to get her to sign stuff.

I tweaked her nipples the next time I helped her on with her coat. She ate a banana the next morning at the diner like I've never seen done before. What I would give to be that banana.

The next scene we had involved a body up on a construction platform. I gave her a boost up to look before the rest of the team got there, and shoved my hand between her legs as I held her up, rubbing my hand against the inside seam of those incredibly tight jeans she wears. As she slid down, she licked the side of my neck, then rubbed her thumb over the head of my dick from where it was saluting her through my pants, before she patted me once and sashayed those curves of hers off to the van as they arrived. Fortunately, there was a dead body right within view to concentrate on.

We had lunch with Caroline Julian at some fancy new French place with tablecloths to celebrate winning a case with her, and it was great, though it got even better when I felt her hot little foot make its way up the inside of my leg and right into my crotch. How I managed to keep a straight face and carry on a normal conversation I'll never know, but she stopped right before I came in my pants. And kept this innocent look on her face the whole time as she licked the salad dressing off her fork. What I wouldn't give to be that fork.

Every time we were in the truck, she grabbed my cock through my pants, and I jammed my hand between her pants-clad legs, rubbing her as she stroked me. I outright cupped her perfect breasts in my palms bending around her to pick up a file she'd "dropped."

Somehow, for almost a month, we never got caught. Four years everyone watches us, thinking we're sleeping together, and now that we're fooling around like horny teenagers, nobody notices.

I had to switch from boxers to briefs to try to keep things under some kind of control. I was so hard all the time that anyone else besides Bones that I dealt with would think I was a sex-starved perv. Well, I was, but I was only sex-starved for Bones. I mean, working with her was hard enough before she caught me ogling her, but hard took on a whole new world of meaning now that the physical dimension of things had become a constant. I mean, I'd spent most of my time the last few years at half-staff around her anyway, but at least I wasn't constantly tenting my pants like this month. Hell, I got hard just watching her _breathe_. Temperance may be her first name, but she should really change it to Temptation. I was never a saint to begin with, but even if I was, I'd probably still be sprung most of the time. This is Bones, after all. She's killing me slowly, one hot pair of jeans and one low cut sweater at a time.

Finally, it all came to a head. Or I lost my head. Or the blood rushed to my head—my lower one. We'd just gotten a confession out of a perp, and she'd been completely appropriate the whole time. It was too bad, too. I'd worn loafers just in case I got a chance to get her back under the table for that lunch with Caroline, and I _hate_ wearing loafers. But no such luck, unfortunately.

The backup guys took our perp back down to holding, and I got up to close up the observation room and turn off the cameras. When I came back, though, she was bending over to pull her bag out from under the table, and her almighty God, I'm not making this up, gorgeous red lace thong strap rode up over the firm white skin of her hip as her shirt rode up. A man can only take so much. That ass, that waist, those hips, that skin. Temperance, thy name is Temptation.

I shut the door quickly and locked it, then stepped behind her and pulled her hard into my hips. She grabbed the edge of the table as she looked back over her shoulder at me, then ground herself further into me. That did it. I had her flipped around and up against the soundproof padding on the wall in an instant, my leg between hers, lifting her feet off the floor so she was straddling me. I grabbed her face and kissed her, groaning at the taste of her mouth, the hot wet velvet of her tongue as she kissed me back and grabbed my hair to hold me in place. As if I was going anywhere.

She mewled-- fucking mewled, the most goddamned sexy sound I've ever heard in my life—when I hitched my leg higher, and her hands came down, one grabbing the ass and the other stroking my cock through my pants. I let go of her face long enough to grab one of her breasts. She gripped and stroked me. I kneaded and pinched her until she was grinding so hard into my leg I could feel how hot and wet she was through both of our clothes. This whole time, I'd been kissing her, and we finally broke apart long enough to breathe before I grabbed her breasts with both hands and bit the side of her neck, using my weight to pin her to the wall. She bit me back, then started sucking my adam's apple as her hand on me started stroking me harder and faster. There was no way she was going to make me come in my pants without me making her, too.

I shifted one hand between her and my leg, grabbing her mound, and oh God, she'd soaked right through the fabric. I rubbed my fingers across the seam of her pants as hard and as fast as she was stroking me, all the while kneading and tweaking her breasts as we both sucked and bit at each other. We came at the same time, my head falling into her shoulder as I bit back the roar I really wanted to make, and she bit my shoulder, screaming into my jacket.

Holy fuck. I had to get her out of those clothes. I hadn't come like that the last ten times I'd had actual sex, and she made me come in my pants like a fifteen year old. Of course, at least I'd made her come, too, and by the way she was panting, her eyes glazed, I'd gotten her off pretty hard.

"You're fucking killing me here," I groaned in her ear.

She mumbled into my shoulder, "You seem pretty lively to me. Maybe we need to try again, see if I can manage it better the next time."

The next time? I sprung to attention immediately. You don't have to tell me _or_ my dick twice. I let her down off my leg, but she grabbed me and pulled my head down for a kiss again. Holy Christ, that woman can kiss. Next thing I knew, I was grinding her into the wall and kissing her until she mewled again. Oh, yeah, I wanted to hear lots more of that, soon.

"They're gonna need the room," I said, when I came up for air again.

"Pity," she gasped, a horndog look in her eye. "Let's get out of here."

All this time, somehow, my shirt managed to stay in my pants, and she wasn't even that rumpled. We straightened ourselves out, and she looked back at me over her shoulder this time when she bent over to get her bag off the floor. Jesus Christ—even He couldn't have avoided that Temptation.

Somehow, we made it back to my office to drop off the file without anyone giving us the "_You two just dry humped until you came in your pants, didn't you_," look. Some investigators they are.

We were ready to go, side to side, backs to the wall in the elevator, my hand up under her shirt so I could snap that goddamned red thong strap of hers when—fuck—Sweets called out for us to hold the elevator.

"Oh, good, you're still here," he said, cluelessly. "I was going to ask you guys some follow up questions for my report."

Bones looked at me, then said, "Look, I'm sorry, but Booth's driving me to … my father's for the weekend, my… car's in the shop, so I'm afraid we don't really have time right now if we're going to beat traffic." Thank God Bones seems to have learned, finally, how to lie. Sweets bought it, hook, line, and sinker, and swallowed, looking scared. He was even more scared of Max than he was scared of me.

"Oh, sure," he said. "How about breakfast Monday at the diner?"

Well, I'd really hoped for a morning quickie with Bones, but I could just set the alarm early. She looked sideways at me, and was having the same thought, I could see. "Fine," we both said.

"Great," he said, smiling goofily as he stepped off before us. "I'll see you then, have a good weekend, guys."

Of course, there were like ten people in the lobby who wanted to talk to me on the way out. Most days, people run in the opposite direction when they see me coming (being a scary-ass sniper is good for one thing—people tend to delegate directly to your desk jockeys, rather than go through you first) but today, when I was actually, finally, going to get into Bones, they're all freaking Chatty Cathys. I only reinforced my scary-ass rep by practically biting their heads off to make things move faster. Don't these people see I have a partner to bang?

"What's your hurry?" she smirked, as we walked back to the car.

"I've got a death wish I want to get started on," I said, running my hands under the waist of her so fucking tight pants as we walked. She just switched her hips more. Goddamnit. I wasn't sure I was going to make it all the way home.

I practically ran off the road when she grabbed me again through my pants halfway back to my place.

"Holy fuck, Bones, give it a rest for five minutes, okay?" I groaned as she stroked me.

She patted me once, then said "I'm starting my watch."

I hit the gas, yes, I'm whipped and proud to say so, I mean, it's Bones, after all, and we made it out of the car and up the walk with thirty seconds to spare. Quickest unlock and relock of the door, before I slammed her into the door and grabbed her shirt, pulling it over her head. Oh, my God. A matching fucking red lace bra, over those incredible breasts of hers. Holy Christ.

She was pulling at my clothes and I swear I've never undressed a woman or me so fast in my life, though I really would have liked to have taken my time with that red lace underwear of hers. I'd take care of making love to her until she was a puddle of goo later—right now I just needed to be inside her. Four fucking years, and if I had to wait another five minutes I was definitely going to die.

I was all set to boost her up on the door when she got another idea. As soon as I'd got free of my pants and my briefs, she ducked around me, then slammed me back into the door—so fucking hard I saw stars, wow—and then I saw them all over again when she dropped to her knees, cupped my balls in her hand, and holy fuck, took me all the way into her mouth, even though for most women, that's a problem. This is Bones, though. She's pretty fucking exceptional.

I managed a "Jesus, you are trying to kill me," before she started sucking me hard while she—holy shit—kneaded my balls in a way that felt so goddamned good, and that thing she did with her thumb? Wow. Her other hot little hand had a grip on my shaft like a cock ring as she sucked me, her cheeks around me like wet satin. She backed off as she ran her tongue, hard, on the underside, scraping me lightly against her teeth as I slipped out of her. I clenched my fists against grabbing her head so she'd please, please, please just keep going. Not that she was done—she only backed off until my head was still inside her mouth, then wrapped her hand around the rest of me, sliding and stroking in perfect rhythm with her tongue, rubbing hard over the tip of my cock. Unfuckingbelievable. I probably groaned it out loud, because she chuckled around me.

She only sped up the pace, and I seriously wondered if my knees were going to give out when she let go suddenly and took me into her mouth all over again, all the way again. Holy Christ and sweet mother of God, she was so made for me. I probably said that out loud, too. It's all kind of hazy. Incredible, mind-blowing blow job hazy. Yeah.

If there was a goddess of perfect blow jobs, it was Bones, and she'd wrapped her hand around the base of my dick again as she braced her hand on the door and started sliding me in and out of her mouth, so fucking slow. So slow. I must've said something to that effect, because she chuckled with me in her mouth again, then obligingly picked up the pace. I really wanted to watch, but she was literally sucking me blind, and I was trying both to stay upright and not give in to the urge for an ungentlemanly face fuck. I mean, it was Bones, after all.

She ripped it right out of me, and I exploded so hard I couldn't hear myself shout whatever the hell was coming out of my mouth. She sucked me dry and then some, and it was like I was sixteen all over again, because she had me almost as hard as I'd been when we first came into the house in no time flat.

Somehow, I managed to pull to the side, even as part of me wanted her to just keep going until she actually killed me. I hauled her up by the arms, yeah, I know, not the most gentle, but if I didn't taste her soon, after having her smell on my hands all this time since the interrogation room, that was going to kill me too.

"Done already?" she asked, this sexy, taunting look on her face as she, holy sweet mother of God, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and then licked her lips. I practically exploded right there.

"Hardly," I managed, then tossed her over my shoulder long enough to make it to the counter. Yep. Perfect height for a snack, and of course, I'd wondered (okay, whacked off to, too) if it might not be. I really wanted to get her going on that mewling sound again, so I abandoned the usual Seeley Booth extra special finesse and pushed her down on the counter so I could kneel, pull her legs over my shoulders, and dive in. I was hungry—had been, almost four years now.

You know how the first time you taste something incredible, you can't help but moan over how good it is while it melts on your tongue, fills your nose, coats your cheeks, and makes your mouth water for more? Yeah—that—except a million times better. I thought I was hungry, before, but now that I knew what she tastes like, I was starving and dying of thirst. Lucky for me, she was already soaking wet. She bucked away from me, gasping, when I first sucked her folds in and moaned at how fucking delicious she was. She whimpered—yeah, I liked that noise, too—when I grabbed her waist and pulled her back into my face again, then looped my arms around her thighs, oh my God, those creamy white thighs, to hold her in place. I wanted that whimper again.

I dragged my tongue over her length, slit to clit, and she twitched. I did it again, and she twitched harder this time, gasping. Yeah, gasping's good, but I wanted that mewling thing. I circled her clit with my tongue a few times, then nibbled at her with my teeth as I licked her length again. I dragged my tongue across and around her entrance a few times, nudging her clit with my nose as her legs quivered around me. Yeah, quivering's good.

I licked her again, lapping and sucking at her until she was thrashing and bucking against me while I held her in place with my hands. When I delved my tongue into her, pushing her hard, she moaned, then did it again when I withdrew and returned. My cock twitched, achingly jealous of my tongue right at that moment. I drew it out for her, sucking and thrusting my tongue into her as slowly as she'd done with me. I nipped and lapped at her too, she was so goddamned delicious, her folds soft and wet, the smell and taste of her like nothing I've ever tasted before.

She was so tight when I thrust my tongue inside her at first, only slowly giving way as I continued, her wet satin walls waiting and holy fuck, tightening further around me as I tongue fucked her, her moans in time with my thrusts. The vibration of my own moans at how delicious she was made her twitch and whimper again, and it just made my already hard, aching, jealous cock get even harder. It wanted hot, dripping wet, so goddamned tight Bones, too.

I pulled her clit between my lips, nibbling and sucking at her. She mewled—yeah, baby—when I sucked her harder, then barely scraped that sensitive bud with my teeth. That was that goddamned sexy noise I wanted to hear, so I did it again, then added my tongue, curling inside her as I continued to knead that hot little button with my lips.

Now, she was mewling, and panting, her thighs clamped and shaking around me as I sucked at her. You know, I usually try to have better table manners, and not slurp or groan over my food, but she was making it impossible, she was so goddamned delicious. I sucked harder at her clit, the vibration of my groan as she mewled again making her buck into my face. I licked her length again before dipping my tongue inside, slurping her juices as she moaned "oh God, fuck, Seeley."

Hah. I wondered what it might take to get her to call me by my first name. Well, now that I knew, I could ensure a repeat. I pushed into her again, and listened to her pant, her hands slapping on the counter as I curled my tongue against her g-spot. She gasped, her walls tightening, so I did it again, and let go of one of her legs with one hand. She was getting close, I could tell, so I took a moment to breathe, dragging my fingers across her. She was so goddamned wet, for me, and I wanted to make her come as hard as she'd made me, so I got back to work.

I always debate—tongue on the outside, fingers on the inside, or vice versa? Both seem to work, but this time I indulged myself. I'd already tasted her, and I wanted to feel her, so I dragged my fingers through her gorgeous, soft, dripping-for-me folds, then entered her with one finger. She gasped, bucking and squirming as her walls yielded to me, as tight, satin and wet as her outside. God, she was killing me, and I wasn't even inside her the way I needed to be, yet. I withdrew and re-entered, two fingers this time. Right as I entered her, I took her clit into my mouth again, sucking hard as I pushed my fingers inside her. She jerked and then whimpered as I started to curl my fingers, then pumped into her slowly as I traced her engorged, throbbing clit with my tongue. I kept it up, slow, and sooner than I thought she would, she was begging for me. "Oh, God, Booth, please," she was moaning, as I kept going too slow for her to come, the friction of my fingers against her so fucking perfect tight core only building a tension in her that she couldn't release. Without me. Of course, I'd done my fair share of begging, I think, I'm not really sure, when she was sucking me off. Boy, was it worth it. I was going to make it worth it for her, too, if it killed me.

I let go of her clit long enough to say "You want to come, baby?" before sucking her into my mouth again, biting lightly at her sensitive nub as I pumped into her again, spreading her this time with my fingers, twisting them as I withdrew from her. "Please," she whined, and then mewled as I sucked her clit hard between my lips and started teasing her with my tongue, pushing hard as I increased the speed of my fingers. She was practically hyperventilating now, moaning between each labored breath, her begging "Seeley, please" giving me the Hardest Cock Known To Man. Ever. No question. I was going to explode again the way she was responding to me, and I was hardly going to let that happen again if I wasn't inside her.

She'd dripped up my hand as I let my fingers explore her, and she gasped when I withdrew from her, switching it up again. I wanted to taste her when she came, so I pinched her clit between my two fingers to hold it in place while I stroked my thumb over her hot little spot. She wailed, and then screamed when I plunged my tongue into her depths again, and started sucking and tonguing her depths in time with my thumb rubbing her clit. Her thighs clamped harder around me, and with one last push of my tongue against her inner ridges, and one last stroke of my thumb over her clit, she stiffened, and screamed, her walls rippling around my tongue as she flooded, her already incredible taste even better, richer under the force of her orgasm.

I didn't want to lose a drop of her juices, and I slurped at her, moaning all over again at her incredible taste as her legs fell limp over my shoulders. She whimpered, shuddering in response, so I thought hard about keeping going right here, and I licked at her some more while I tried to decide.

"Oh, God, Booth, please, I need you," she panted. Okay, decision made, don't have to ask me twice. Except—where the hell did I put those condoms I bought, just in case, when she grabbed my cock through my pants and licked the side of my neck at the same time? That was just over two weeks ago, right before that foot job in the restaurant. Maybe the bedroom? I was having a hard time thinking straight. God, that was so far away. Well, nothing for it. It was only thirty feet, tops. I could make it that far.

I pulled myself up, a Bones-eating grin on my face as I wiped off my chin. She was panting, eyes closed, laid out flat, flushed and sweating on top the counter. Jesus. And I thought she was hot before. I was going to spontaneously combust unless I got into her soon. I leant over and licked the sweat beading between her breasts, until I reached the base of her throat, and lapped up the few beads of sweat pooling there as she moaned again. Holy fuck, the woman was going to kill me. I was taking her with me, no matter what, though.

"C'mon, Bones," I urged, but she just cracked an eye at me and rasped, "I don't think I can move."

Excellent. Seeley Booth, alpha male to the rescue. I pulled her forward, pretty sure my knees weren't going to collapse at the sight of her perfect heaving breasts and taut nipples, and scooped her up. Thirty feet, maybe forty, to the bedroom? I barely managed to get her onto the bed—my bed, hah-- not because she was heavy, she was surprisingly light, but because her hot sweaty skin against mine made me even stiffer—more stiff than that first woody I ever got, when I was eleven. (Yeah, early bloomer. What can I say? I like girls.)

Bedside table? They should be there. Aww, yeah. Showtime, baby. She'd rolled over by then, and was looking at me in amusement as she braced herself up on one elbow.

"Prepared, much?"

"Well, you did grab my cock _and_ lick my neck, you know," I retorted, charm smiling her. "I kinda thought I should be prepared, just in case."

She laughed. "Well, it's a good thing, because the ones I bought last week wouldn't fit you." Eyeing me as I dangled there, rock hard, still wrestling with the stupid box, which didn't want to open goddamnit, she shook her head, mock-ruefully. "I must admit I'm embarrassed. I thought I measured correctly after that time in your bathroom, but it seems I underestimated."

Hah. Yep. They always do. By this time, I'd gotten the damned cardboard to open, and gotten one out, and she leaned over and pulled it out of my hands. "Allow me," she said. "Smaller hands, more precise application," she smirked, as she pulled it out of my hand. God. She was going to kill me, and I had a fierce death wish right now. I pulled a few more out of the box, just in case, I mean, she did get me going again in about two minutes flat before, so maybe… but then she'd wrapped her little hand around me, saying "Come here" in this dead sexy voice.

Okay, easy enough. I usually do what Bones wants in the end, anyway. Call me whipped, I don't care—I mean, it's Bones, for Christ's sake. She pushed me back to sit on the bed, hitching her own knees up as she scooted closer to me. Oh, God, I could see her pink satin core, and she was still so goddamned wet, her clit practically throbbing. With a glint in her eye, she knelt forward, unrolling it onto me so goddamned slowly as her other hand started tickling my balls again. She smiled when she was finished, as if she was inspecting her work. "Satisfied?" I asked, only half joking.

"Not yet," she said, then pushed me back onto the bed and crawled over me. Unbelievable. I actually like women on top, it's so sexy when they throw their heads back and their breasts bounce when I pump into them until they scream out and come. She straddled me, her heat nestling all around my cock, and I pulled her down for a kiss, wrapping my hand around her neck and my fingers taking roost in the hair at the nape of her neck. She kisses like nobody else, aggressive and yet yielding—or maybe she was just like this with me, because she took turns like we do out of bed. I wasn't done kissing her, but my cock was straining against her as she straddled me, desperate by now to feel her around me. I pulled her forward, letting go of her mouth so I could tug her forward some more, then latched on to one of her creamy, incredible breasts as I spread her lips with my hand and surged up into her.

Jesus. Unfucking believable. I had to let go to shout "Sweet mother of God" when she took me all the way in to the hilt. She, meanwhile, let out this long, surprised "ooohhh" as I filled her, a look of shock on her face as her hot walls stretched around me, then took me in even further. Holy Christ. She was definitely made for me—I'm too long for most women, but I could bury myself in Bones.

I bucked out halfway, then back in, and she gasped "Oh, Jesus, Seeley" when I filled her again. I pushed her back, and taking the cue, she sat almost all the way up, kneeling close, bracing her arms on my stomach in front of her, her hot little hands splaying on me as she then sank all the way down over me, closing her eyes as this look of disbelief crossed her face. Yeah, baby. She felt so good all around me, but I needed more, so I grabbed hold of her knees. She opened her eyes, grinning wickedly, then pushed off and away, until I almost slipped out of her. Oh no she doesn't. No more teasing today—this last month practically killed me. I surged up after her, my hands grabbing her waist to bring her back onto me, our hips grinding together as she groaned when I filled her again. "Oh my God, Booth," she gasped, then pushed up and slid back down again, starting a rhythm.

I love watching, I admit it, I'm a voyeur—at least in my bedroom. I love seeing them slide up and down, their folds dripping as I fill them, their hips grinding into mine as I push up into them. But Bones? Well, she's always exceptional. I got harder, watching her take me in again, and turned my attention to the rest of her as she slid down and ground her hips into mine. So goddamned perfect. Her eyes were closed in concentration, her little hands pushing off of me as she slid up, the muscles of her thighs working as she lowered herself down. Her taut stomach, those incredible breasts swaying gently, more sweat beading between them as we each sped the rhythm. She had this sly smile on her face, the same one she sometimes wore when I knew she was teasing me on purpose, except a hundred times wider, and as sexy as that was, I wanted to see that look of shock on her face from when I first filled her again.

I grabbed her more firmly in my hands, admiring all over again the wide flare from her waist to those incredible hips, making room for that incredible ass of hers, then pulled her more forcefully onto me as I pumped harder up into her. She gasped, her eyes snapping open as I looked at her, a stunned look on her face. Yeah. That's what I wanted. Before she could recover, I did it again, pushing her up and away from me before pulling her down again, watching as my length slammed into her again, filling her so much I banged hard against the end of her walls. She grunted, this soft little noise, her eyes fluttering closed as her hands flexed on me, and I smiled. Bones likes it deep? I'll give her deep.

I took over, completely, holding on to her as I sped the rhythm and depth of my thrusts, and soon she was arching away from me, her back bowing and breasts straining upwards as I hammered into her. Every time I filled her to the hilt, she would make that soft little grunt again, so I sped it up faster. Soon, she was mewling, that damned sexy sound, and her hands were flexing on me, looking for something to hold on to. I was starting to breathe heavily, and not just because I was pistoning into her with everything in me. The sight of her, totally flushed, her head falling back-- I could tell I was close, and she was coming with me, no matter what. I pulled my knees up behind her so I could hold her in place, one hand on her stomach pushing her back into my legs, so I could reach between us, stroking to gather her wetness onto my fingers. As I filled her again, I pulled her clit between my fingers as I finished the stroke. "Ah, Seeley!" she yelled, her eyes snapping open, unseeing again. Goddamn, she was perfect.

I worked at her clit and her hands and legs started to tremble, her face full of shock and desire as I continued to pull on and pound at her. She clenched, once, and I pulled at her clit a little more firmly, then pulled her forward so her chest rested on top of mine. I grabbed her by the waist again, one hand still spanning her mound, and started rubbing her even more firmly as I lost control of the rhythm, jerking into her over and over. She screamed "Ah! Fuck! Seeley!" her walls so fucking tight, rippling and flooding around me as she yelled in my ear. I might go deaf, but what a way to go. I only managed a few more strokes, before the force of her walls milking me ripped another blinding explosion from me. "Jesus, fuck! Temperance!" I shouted, as an even stronger orgasm than the one she'd sucked out of me pulled me back into her.

She collapsed, her sweat coated body sealing to mine, her hot breasts heaving against my chest, both our hearts pounding. My own gasps were roaring in my ears, but she was whimpering in the crook of my neck as aftershocks spread through her, her walls clenching and unclenching around me.

"Did I manage to kill you this time?" she finally panted in my ear, her voice husky and low. She pulled up slightly to smile at me, and that satisfied smile on her face made me hard again. Amazing.

"Almost," I said, flipping her, tossing the old condom, and pulling out a new one.

"Are you satisfied yet?" I asked, looking at her over my shoulder as I wiped myself off with the sheet and unwrapped and rolled on a new one.

She was watching me, this lazy grin on her face, and said "Almost."

I loomed over her, then surprised her, grabbing her arms and pushing them over her head as I surged back into her.

"Ah! Booth!" she cried out when I filled her, my hands pinning hers to the bed as she ground her hips up into mine.

"I'll make you a deal, Bones," I rasped, as I pulled out and then filled her again. "You tell me when you're satisfied, and I'll let you know when you kill me."

She moaned out "deal," as I filled her again, her walls clenching lightly around me. So fucking perfect, she was.

I liked this new deal. Scully and Mulder can bite me—they never had Bones. Me, however? I plan on having Bones as much as humanly possible.


	4. The Backrub

**_So-- I wrote lots of dirty, hot n' heavy B & B lovin', the last two chapters, with many kind reviews and more than a few "__When are they going to make love?"s. This one's for you—Booth and Brennan making love, and lots and lots of foreplay, first. Lots. There's a little bit of kink, but I think it's pretty mild. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it.

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It might not have happened if she wasn't so tired. They'd both been working nonstop trying to solve a case where one girl was found murdered, another still missing. They'd found the still-missing girl, arrested the subject, and even managed to get a confession.

Brennan had worked around the clock, literally—the only time she seemed to sleep was in Booth's truck, when they were headed back to the lab or the Hoover from somewhere. It had taken she and the team, particularly Hodgins, days in between her helping Booth question suspects before she could make the injury patterns and the particulates data turn into something she could use. Booth crashed on the couch in her office while she and Hodgins still worked, relentlessly questioning, re-examining the data, cross-examining each other until they found the breakthrough that led Brennan and Booth to find their still-alive victim and her kidnapper, were able to stop him from claiming a second victim.

Her whole body ached, and she was so tense and so tired from all of her efforts over the past three days that she was at her physical limit—even she was willing to admit it. It was just dawn when they finished, and the diner was opening as they left the Hoover together. He cajoled her into some breakfast—they'd both missed dinner the night before while they were raiding the home where the missing child was being kept. She declined her usual coffee, sticking with herbal tea as she told Booth, "I'm just so tired. I'm going to go home to sleep until I wake up again. And then, maybe some more."

Booth knew she must really be tired to admit it aloud, and there were lines of pain, not just worry, lining her forehead and mouth. Unthinking, he reached across and laid his hand on the arm she'd left resting on the table as she picked at her food with the other. "You did good work, Bones, you deserve it," he said. She smiled only slowly at him, to his eye completely exhausted and worn, and accepting his gesture without shying away, too tired to be wary of any personal advance, even as she still sometimes was even with him. He'd already finished his breakfast, and could see she was struggling with hers, so he put down some bills. His hand still on her arm, he closed his fingers around her wrist, tugging and saying, "Come on, Bones, I'll drive you home."

He was exhausted himself, but he hadn't gone completely without sleep, like she had—like she often did, when they were working these type of cases. Even the team managed to crash a few hours at a time while he and Bones were gone from the lab. But Booth wasn't of any use squinting at bones on a table or computer screens full of unintelligible data, so he grabbed what sleep he could while Bones was still working. The scent of her in the couch in her office lulled him to sleep for a few hours at a time before he'd wake again, check on how things were going, exchange hypotheses as much with them as he could, until it was a decent hour for them to hit the street again, questioning witnesses, checking facts, narrowing the field of suspects.

He drove her home and walked her up to her place, yawning hugely himself. He'd looped his arm over her shoulder in the elevator up, and she'd leaned in to him, almost sagging, she was so tired. He saw her in, and then yawned again, earning a dry chuckle from Bones. "You're likely to crash the truck if you drive home. Go ahead and take the couch if you want."

He didn't need another invitation, and he locked the door up behind them. She regarded him quietly, tiredly, then said, "Sleep well, Booth," before heading off toward her bedroom.

"You too, Bones," he called. He kicked off his shoes, dumped his things on the table, and shed his jacket and belt, slinging himself into the warm embrace of her sofa, and hauling the throw she kept on its back down over him. Seemed like he spent more time on her various couches than his own bed, which was fine with him. His sheets didn't smell like her. He drifted off to the sound of her shower starting, then woke later to the sound of her filling a glass in the sink. It had been only two hours since he'd sacked out on her couch.

"Thought you were going to sleep," he mumbled from the warm depths of her couch.

"I tried, but I'm too sore, too overtired," she said quietly. "I'm taking some aspirin."

He slung his arm over the back of the sofa and pulled himself up to look at her. She'd changed into close-fitting ticking striped boxer shorts and a plain white camisole, her gorgeous pale skin beckoning, her silky hair gathered back in the simplest of ponytails. Leave it to Bones to make something as simple as what she was wearing the sexiest thing ever. But she did look worn out, and he could see how bunched her neck and shoulders were, now that her skin was exposed. His poor Bones. She'd been hunched over that exam table or at Hodgins' station when they weren't out on the road.

Before he could register whether it was a good idea, Booth was already across the room and placing his hands on her shoulders. She was rock hard under his hands, her muscles knotted and bunched-- no wonder she couldn't sleep. "Poor Bones," he said, digging his thumbs lightly into the worst knots, right at the join of her shoulder and neck.

Brennan let out a surprised exhalation, first at his warm large hands on her bare skin, and then at how skillfully he was kneading the knots that hurt the most. It was more physical contact than he'd ever initiated, other than his now-routine hand on her back, over her jacket or coat, but she'd be damned if she was going to tell him to stop. It felt good, and she was no longer so stubborn that she couldn't admit that she liked when he touched her. She yawned so deeply it made her eyes water, and Booth chuckled behind her. "Come on, Bones. You go lie down and I'll finish your backrub, okay?"

She was so tired that she took him up on his offer, despite the fact that in other circumstances, she'd have found an excuse to say no. Not because she didn't want him touching her, but because she did. So much. Too much. She was his partner, and even since he'd been shot, he'd made no indication that he thought of her as anything than that, even as she realized while he was dead that she'd been a fool not to see she wanted more from him. So she'd kept quiet about how she felt. Lord knew, she'd had practice keeping her mouth shut and brain turned off about feelings.

"Okay," she said softly, then put her glass down and padded back to her bedroom. Booth, meanwhile, was a little surprised she'd given in so easily, but he wasn't going to give up a chance to touch Bones, _and_ help her relax in the process. He managed not to gawk too curiously at her room—he'd caught glimpses plenty of times on his way to the john, but he'd never poked his head in and really looked around. It was sparer than he thought it might be. She had all those museum pieces up in her office and even some on walls in her hallways and living room, but there was none of that here.

Instead, it was a quiet blue-grey oasis-- like her eyes, he decided. Whites, light and navy blues, pewter greys and silver accents, wood and soft fabrics, no metal or other hard edges anywhere. No wall-full displays of those clunky necklaces of hers—the only sign of Bones, the world traveler, was an eclectic collection of little boxes on top of her bureau he supposed she kept her jewelry in, but it was just stacks of books on both sides of the bed, beside lamps on the side tables, and the charcoal grey plush pillows and covers on her bed, along with a small white and blue awning-striped armchair and hassock in the window. It wasn't girly, just quiet—kind of like Bones.

Brennan tiredly flopped back on her bed, not bothering to stifle a groan as the prone position reminded her of how sore her neck and lower back were. Booth chuckled sympathetically, then said, "Turn over, there, Bones. I can hardly give you a backrub if you're lying on it."

She grumbled and rolled over, pulling her pillow under her head. "Remind me to order stools for the platform, so I don't have to stand for days at a time."

"Poor Bones," Booth said again, sitting gingerly on the side of her bed, and contemplating where to begin. Well, those knots needed to be worked out—he could start there without needing to really shift from where he was sitting, much less straddle her hips while he worked on her lower back. Memories of high school when "giving a backrub" meant an excuse to cop a feel and make out rushed back, and he mentally kicked himself. No thinking like that about Bones—no matter how much he wanted to. And boy, did he want to.

He shifted and reached again for her shoulders, smoothing his hands over her neck and shoulders to see where the rest of the knots were. She was basically one giant knot, though, and he winced all over again. Bones was a hell of a tough cookie, he thought. If he'd been this physically tense, he'd have long since started whining like a baby until someone offered to give him a neck rub. But not Bones—she just kept working, never asked for anything. He wished she would, sometimes—not that he was tired of nagging at her to take better care of herself, he just wished that she felt like she could ask. Knowing he'd find knots all the way up into her scalp, he pulled the rubber band on her ponytail off, unthinking, without asking permission. It would be in his way.

Booth started in again on the knots he'd found in her kitchen, pressing firmly with his thumbs into the knots, but not too firmly yet. It took several minutes, during which time he also worked at the tense, corded muscle running up the sides of her neck to her hairline, before returning to those knots again at the base. Bones was lying still, her head on her arms, and making small hisses every time he re-worked those knots, but she didn't tense up any more than she already had, so he figured he could keep going. Finally, the knots started to warm up and loosen, so he returned to work on her neck and the small knots at the base of her skull and up into her scalp. He was trying hard not to enjoy too much the sight of her soft hair spilling over his hands at he worked at the knots there.

"You're nuts, Bones," he said, half-joking, half-chiding. "I don't know how you worked like this."

"You do what you have to," she mumbled into the pillow, not bothering to turn her head. Booth really did have talented hands, his fingers strong, warm and exerting just the right amount of pressure. Her neck was finally starting to feel like a neck again, not one long knot of painful, tense muscle. He had slight callouses on both hands, at the base of his thumb and palm, the pads of his index and middle finger, the inside of the middle knuckle of his index fingers. She wondered, idly, how often he went to the range, that he would also have callouses on his non-dominant firing hand. He usually shot right handed when he had to. Poor Booth. As much as he joked about shooting people and things that annoyed him, he hated firing his gun.

"Still," Booth responded, finally feeling that last knot at the base of her skull dissolve. He pressed his thumbs again down the midline of her neck, letting his fingers knead the once-corded sides, until he returned, he hoped a last time, to work on those stubborn knots at the base. Now that the rest of her neck had softened, he could press a little harder on those without causing her too much discomfort. He let his fingers curl over her shoulders as he pushed his thumbs into the knots, feeling them still resisting, sliding out from under his fingers, shying away from dissolution. Seeley Booth was not a man to be defeated by some stubborn knots, though, especially ones that were hurting his Bones, so he dug in a little harder, surprising a small grunt out of his partner.

"Too hard?" he asked, but she shook her head.

"No—keep going," she said. It hurt, a little, but it was a good kind of pain, the kind that meant something even more painful was on the verge of yielding to pressure, and would release her from its distracting hold over her. Booth continued his ministrations, and made his own grunt of satisfaction when the two knots finally popped under his thumbs. Brennan felt a groan escape her throat at the sudden stab of pain, followed by the blessed release of the more constant pain stabbing up to the base of her skull. His hands continued back up her neck and then down again, to rub one last time at the place where the knots were, dispersing the fatigue poisons that would have collected there. She would be a little tender, tomorrow, but it would be so much less than what she'd been putting up with the last day and a half that she could hardly mind.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Had to get those suckers out."

"S'alright," she mumbled again into her pillow, as she felt his hands move over her upper back, spreading his fingers and palms over her bare skin as he searched out new points of tension, new tightened muscles needing soothing release. She stifled a physical shiver at Booth's proximity, mentally slapping herself for unpartnerly thoughts about Booth. But his hands felt so nice… and a woman could dream, couldn't she?

Booth, meanwhile, was entertaining much the same thoughts. Even as he felt out the new points of bunched muscle, stored tension, painful knots, the sight of that white, gorgeous skin and the feel of it under his hands was oh so very tempting. The faint pink spots that would rise on her skin where he dug in with his knuckles and thumbs faded, and these spots of tension seemed to dissolve more readily than the ones in her neck. He finished her upper back, then, and hesitated. He'd have to slip his hands under her shirt to really do the rest of her back properly.

Brennan, lulled by the fact that Booth had managed to make her back start to feel like a part of her body again, rather than an instrument of more pain, vaguely noticed that Booth had paused as he reached the back of her camisole, his hands still resting over her shoulderblades where he'd just rubbed out the tension. She wasn't half asleep—she was still tired, but the warmth spreading through her had nothing to do with exhaustion. She mentally slapped herself again. She felt much better, really, and would definitely be able to sleep now, even though other parts of her still twinged with tension. The worst of it was the neck and upper back, and he'd gotten those. She could put up with the lower back until tomorrow. She couldn't blame her chivalrous best friend for hesitating, even as she wished he'd go on. She was tired enough, though, that she sighed, wishing he would.

Booth saw Bones sigh, the inhale and exhale of her lungs expanding her ribs and contracting her waist, right where it flared in, almost impossibly small against the rest of her curves. For someone so tough, she was almost impossibly feminine. If he hadn't been watching her intensely, feasting his eyes as he liked to do when she wasn't looking, he wouldn't have noticed the muscles spasming at the start of her lower back. Visible spasms were bad, they must be hurting her like hell, he thought.

Well, to hell with it. If she didn't like it, she'd say so, Bones never hesitated to swat him when he was really annoying her. He ran his hands over her shirt down to the muscles just at the base of her spine. He wasn't really kneading her gorgeous rear end, much as he'd like to—it was the tense muscles above it, spanning up and across her waist, that seemed almost as tense as the ones she'd borne in her upper back. He wouldn't have been able to put up with this—Bones was definitely tougher than him.

She grunted again when he started bearing into the sorest parts of her lower back with his knuckles, rotating against the tensed muscle first in one direction, then another. He paused, intermittently, to let his hands warm the muscles above those in her clenched lower back, before returning again to those painful, stubborn knots. Eventually, he became bold. He slipped his hands under the camisole, working at the muscles lining her spine with this thumbs, palms and fingers splaying and spanning her ribs as they narrowed into her waist. She was so tiny, more than she appeared, he reflected. The Bones the rest of the world saw was bigger than the one she let him see. He could almost span her waist in his hands. He slapped himself mentally again.

The knots just under her kidneys finally yielded again to Booth's well-timed, well-managed pressure, and she grunted again as the knots suddenly popped. Booth thought that her soft noise of release was about the sexiest thing he'd ever heard. He let his hands trail up both sides of her spine, under her shirt, before returning to re-test the muscles he'd worked so hard to relax, earlier. She hadn't tensed up again, too much, so he just let his hands rest, palms down, to warm the muscles there before ascending again to her scalp. This time, he fully indulged himself, pressing his thumbs and index fingers up and along the back of her head, fingers kneading the sides of her skull as he let the silky strands of her hair slide over and around his fingers and hands.

Brennan let out a near-unconscious groan. The things he could do with his hands—it just wasn't fair. He had no idea what he was doing to her. Heat was pooling in her core, despite her exhaustion, and as he'd massaged her scalp, she was ready to throw herself at him. Those talented hands—no doubt, this was the best backrub of her life. No surprise, in the end—in the things she'd observed him doing during their partnership, he almost always excelled.

"Like that, Bones?" he said, surprised at his own daring in asking something so clearly double-laden with meaning. He knew what he wanted it to mean, even if she didn't.

"Yes…" she groaned, unable to stop herself. "Don't stop," she said, the filter between her brain and her mouth obliterated, even as she was horrified to hear it escape from her mouth in response to a different question than the one he was asking her, her friend who was just giving her a backrub. Booth would think she was forward, get embarrassed, and leave. To her surprise, though, she felt his weight shift away from her on the bed as he promptly sat on top of her hips, facing away from her, the press of his knees on either side of her hips causing a hollow to form under her stomach and hips. She groaned at the new way her lower back hurt.

"Sorry," he said, shifting instantly to flip around and return his attentions there. He kneaded the muscles further, feeling that the muscle tension descended past the "safe" part of her lower back that wasn't her behind. Well, she'd kick him if she thought he was being too forward, he decided. What the hell, right? You only really died once—there were worse ways to go than finally getting to see what her gorgeous curves felt like under his hands.

From his vantage point straddling her mid thighs, he dug his thumbs back into the knots in her lower back, his hands eventually descending to the real home of the knots, the muscles below the waistline at the start of the curve of her incredible rear where all the tension from so much standing collected. She groaned again as he pressed on the knots with his thumbs, then stopped to make fists so he could bear down with his knuckles into the tension-filled muscles.

Brennan huffed a breath as he bore down, but he was really finding the sorest spots and making them all disappear. She wondered what it would be like if he slipped his hands under her boxers, cupped her curves like a lover. She kicked herself, mentally.

Bones' involuntary exhalations and noises were driving him mad. The sight of all that skin, the scent of her, was too much, even as he determined all over again to control himself. It was an everyday struggle, contolling himself, stopping himself from all the things he wanted to do—kiss her, hug her in a non guy hug way, throw her over the table and make her scream for him, get down on one knee and beg her to marry him. Right now, though, the temptation was that skin of hers.

"Want me to do your legs, too?" he asked, thinking to himself that it would both kill him and make him deliriously happy to run his hands over the skin of those mile-long white legs.

"Mmmm" was her only response. He'd take that as a yes. He turned around again, straddling her thighs as he contemplated her long, perfect legs. He leant forward, pulled an ankle up, until her shin was at a ninety degree angle to the bed, and started kneading the flesh, from ankle to knee, slowly. The white of her legs, the slender ankles, the dip and swell of her muscles and curves—she was killing him. Her feet were even incredible, not knobbly or otherwise painful-looking from all those high heels.

Brennan groaned again as his hands spanned her calves, kneading and warming the tension stored even there. He switched legs, and continued his motions all over again, until she let out another groan of satisfaction for the way her body now felt like flesh, not rock. He shifted his hands to her feet, then, and she steeled herself.

Brennan had never told anyone that her feet were an erogenous zone. A good foot massage, and she was putty. The heat already building in her started to burn hotter, as his warm dry palms rotated each foot at the ankle, before his fingers pressed lightly into the tops of her feet, while his thumbs kneaded and stroked her heels and arches.

"Oh, God, that feels good," she moaned, as his warm and talented fingers started manipulating her toes, stimulating a trickle of wetness between her legs. This was not good, she thought to herself. She could not let herself become outwardly aroused just because he was massaging her feet. He was her friend, she needed to stop thinking the way about him.

Booth was rock hard by this point, each hiss or moan of satisfaction causing his manhood to tighten, almost impossibly so. The fact that she'd clenched her behind as he straddled her, then clenched again when he started rubbing her feet hadn't escaped him. She _liked_ it when someone rubbed her feet, judging by the way her hips pushed into the bed as he sat on top of her. He filed that one away as he admired again her shapely toned muscles and gorgeous curves, slapping himself mentally for ogling her—but he couldn't stop himself, now. He shifted off and to the side of her as he brushed his hands, lightly, up the back and inside of her thighs, searching out any more knots and bunched muscles, allowing his fingers to revel in the satin warmth of her skin.

Brennan twitched as his hands reached the join of her thighs and her rear over the fabric of her shorts and stifled a moan of a different sort. He was so close, and yet, so far away.

Booth wondered at the twitch. Was he getting to her? Was she getting turned on? He decided he'd better just finish the massage, and decide later. "Hey," he said, "let me finish your arms."

Brennan lifted her head from her arms, and turned and looked at Booth. "You don't need to," she said, though she really, really didn't want him to stop touching her.

He tried looking offended, but the corner of his mouth was twitching at the pitiful look of self-denial she wore on her face. She wanted him to stop about as much as he did, though he was sure her look was due simply to the fact that she was so incredibly tense. "Bones, I always finish what I start. Now come on, arms, roll over."

She rolled onto her side, eyes half-lidded in both tiredness and pleasure, trying to decide what he was going to do, and wondering how she was going to hide the fact that she was completely aroused. At least her nipples weren't hard, she thought to herself. Thank goodness for small favors. Well, she'd just have to try harder to control her facial expressions.

As soon as she rolled onto her back, he sat back against her headboard next to her, and pulled up her right arm, admiring the view. She had toned shoulders and upper arms, not too muscular but long and defined, tapering in to her elbow and her long, slender forearms. And those hands of hers—small, and dexterous, her long fingers and blunt, unpainted nails. She'd never bitten her fingernails, he could tell. The one time he'd seen her with long, painted nails, it just looked wrong, out of place. As hot as that Roxie persona was, and as much as those dresses she wore tempted him, those long, fake nails and that accent would have had to go before he'd have made love to Bones. He wanted all of her, and Bones was all real— no fake layers like other women, including Roxie, wore.

He started in at the shoulder, pulling her arm up against his chest as his hands circled her, his thumbs pressing into the upper side of her arm as his fingers skimmed and lightly kneaded the impossibly soft skin under her arms. He worked his way down to her elbow, then up again, taking his time. Once he finished this arm, he'd have to move on to the other, and then he'd have to stop touching her, stop feasting his eyes on her.

Her eyes were closed again, and he admired her long, dark lashes curling against her cheek, the ever-so-slight upturn of her nose. Makeup off, dark circles under her eyes, and no freckles or blemishes of any kind on the porcelain skin of her face, she was the most gorgeous woman, tired or not, he'd ever had the torture of being this close to. He worked his way down her forearm, and found that there was a knot in the muscles not far below her elbow, almost as hard as the ones in her neck and her lower back. Her forearms were so slender that he could span them with just one hand, so he let his other slide back up to her upper arm as he pulled her elbow up to rest on his thigh. He kneaded the knot, and she groaned again.

"I didn't even know that one was there," she said, her eyes still closed, her face betraying a wince as his thumb pressed into the knot.

"Well, sometimes the body hides reactions to things we don't even know are there," he said, kicking himself mentally as he again said something that could be taken as having a double meaning. Shut up, Seeley, he thought to himself, and returned to concentrating on that bunched stress point in her arm. He didn't wonder it was tense—her right hand and arm were what she wrote with, fired her gun with, the delicate hand that precisely placed bones on the table, moving them and holding them gently as she examined them and made them tell her their secrets. Her right index finger pointed out the anomalous data on xrays and computer screens, her arm pointed out the evidence they needed at the scene. Her right arm, in short, did the work only she could do so well. No wonder she had so much tension stored there.

The knot finally yielded, again with a pop under his fingers, and she made that soft grunt of half-pain, half-release again, an expression of slight pain furrowing her forehead for a moment. He resisted the urge to smooth his thumb over the line that arose there in response to something he'd done. Instead, he returned to massaging the rest of her forearm with both hands, pressing and stroking his fingers over the muscles down to the wrist, then started in on her hand.

Brennan did not know, up to that point at least, that her hands were also an erogenous zone, but as Booth's large hands enfolded her own, rotating her hand at the wrist before beginning to press his fingers and thumbs along the lines of her palm, the thumbs stroking along the base of her thumb and up the outside of her hand, she discovered that she was almost as turned on by his hands on hers as she'd been with her feet. His hands were so warm, Brennan thought lazily, the heat that pooled between her legs warming further. She couldn't help it when she twitched again as he started massaging each finger, the pressure firm and yet gentle.

Booth didn't miss as Bones twitched again, and a small little smile bloomed on her face. He _was_ getting to her—he was turning her on. Maybe. He hoped so. Oh, Lord, did he hope so. Which was good, because he was even stiffer than he'd been before, now that he had an unobstructed view of the rise and fall of her chest, the way her ribs tapered in at her waist, the flare of her hips and those long legs going on forever. Well, he'd just see what he could do to get one of those little groans out of her again, and see where it got him.

With that decision, he threw all pretense of the "_just partners_" thing outside the window. As if it wasn't obvious to everyone they worked with, as Angela liked to nag him whenever she got him alone. Hell, even today she'd cornered him after they came back to the lab, and said, "What the hell are you waiting for? Just kiss her again, already." He'd brushed her off, as usual, with a "_we're just partners_," like he always did, but he also hadn't planned on having Bones turn to jelly while he gave her what he'd really intended to be "just" a backrub. "_Just partners_," his ass.

He finished her fingers and thumb, then stroked his hands back up to her elbow, just because he felt like it, and not because he intended to see if that knot was still there. However, it had re-formed since he'd left it, so he had an excuse to push into it a little. She groaned again, this time more in pain than anything else, and he caught her pained grimace, again stifling the urge to smooth or kiss it away.

"Sorry. It's stubborn."

"Shocking," she said, cracking an eye as she turned her head to look up at him. "I'm simply not stubborn, I can't imagine why on earth I would have stubborn body parts." Her mouth quirked at the corner, and he chuckled. Bones didn't joke much, but she did around him, at least.

"Well," he said, pressing his thumbs into the knot again and noting the return of her grimace, "I'll come back to this one after I do your other arm." Before he could chicken out of this next part, he hitched one leg in, half Indian style, and hauled Bones half up against him, congratulating himself for placing his leg between her lower back and his raging erection. She huffed a little as her back flopped into his chest, her head resting just under his shoulder, but he quickly pulled her other arm up and started working on her upper arm before she could express her surprise.

Brennan's body was far more relaxed than she'd been all week, in fact, far further back than that. She always carried tension in her shoulders and back, but she'd learned to put up with it. It was only when she worked days straight without sleeping, that the tension became unbearable. Much like the tension between her legs was quickly becoming, she thought ruefully. Each press of his fingers along hers, the pressure he exerted at her fingertips elicited another wash of tension from between her legs. It took all of her willpower, before he'd just moved her, not to clench her thighs together, something that would clearly signal her inappropriate arousal. Now, it was even worse, feeling the firm muscles of his upper chest against her back, the warmth of him seeping into her as his talented hands finished her upper arms and again found a knot in her forearm mirroring the other. Yet despite the tension building in her, the warm spicy scent of him and his cologne was seeping around her, lulling her at the same time—as she closed her eyes, she had the sensation of floating in a warm, firm, Booth-scented cloud.

This time, he pressed more gently into the knot in her left forearm, taking his time. He'd have to go back to the other one, which was good, but then he'd be done, and he still hadn't figured out a way to decide if she was really aroused, or just languid because he gave a mean backrub. He let his thumb circle the knot, and it finally popped, making her huff a half-grunted breath in surprise. He worked his hands up and down the rest of her forearm, kneading her perfect white flesh until it was smooth and unknotted, then pulled her arm up to his chest so he could do her left hand.

Brennan restrained a groan, or a "take me now, please, for the love of your God" or anything else that would inappropriately signal to Booth that each stroke of his fingers and thumbs over her hand sent a jolt from her core through her body. He was almost done, and she was trying to think of a way to prolong it, and yet stifle the fact that she was more aroused from a simple massage than she'd been by any man, ever. It just wasn't fair. Why did she have to be cursed with a kind, strong, ruggedly handsome, perfect physical specimen of a partner?

Booth, meanwhile, was still concentrating on her hand, working at each fingertip. "Almost done," he said, his breath ghosting the side of her neck. She almost moaned at the feel of his warm, moist breath on her, the feel of it only increasing the tension between her legs. "Feel better?" he asked, and his breath warmed her neck again.

It was too much, and she couldn't control her body's involuntary response as his moist exhalation passed over her skin. Her nipples hardened, her breasts growing heavy with desire for him-- her partner, and friend. She was horrified that her body would so visibly display what his line made impossible. Maybe he wouldn't notice. Maybe he'd think she was just cold. God, she hoped he hadn't noticed. Wait—he'd asked her something. "Yes, thank you," she ground out, by this point wishing he'd stop working on her hand, since it only made her nipples tauten further.

Booth hadn't missed her body's response as he breathed on her neck. He was getting to her, there it was, visible proof she was turned on, too. He strengthened his resolve, and took the next step.

Brennan felt his hands on hers still, and she smacked herself, mentally. He'd noticed, and now he'd be uncomfortable, and things would be awkward. She was still berating herself when he pulled up her hand to his mouth and kissed the back of it, then rotated it to lay a wet, open-mouthed kiss in her palm. His tongue darted out to tickle the middle of her hand as he sucked at her. He let go with a pop, then started in on her fingers.

Brennan gasped aloud when he slid her first finger into his mouth, sucking lightly as his tongue tickled her fingertip. "Booth," she groaned, disbelieving, a bolt of lightning shooting through her as his tongue caressed her. He continued to suck at her, before stopping long enough to take the middle digit into his mouth, repeating the sucking and teasing he'd done to the first one. Her breasts grew even heavier, and a new trickle of wetness escaped from her even as her empty walls clenched, wanting, needing, having to have him inside her. He did each finger, her thumb, and she was panting by the time he returned to the palm of her hand, repeating the first kiss he'd laid there. He took his time pulling her other arm up, paying attention to each finger of her dominant hand, then kissed and sucked at the silken inside of her forearm. He'd slipped one arm around her waist as he held her to his chest and continued to taste her skin, stopping to sip at the inside of her elbow. He turned her arm, nipping up the defined lines of her long muscles, licking with quick flicks of his tongue in between the small bites. She groaned again—she couldn't believe it, but she'd be damned if she was going to tell him to stop. She wanted him, and apparently he wanted her, too.

He sucked softly at the top of her shoulder, and her chest heaved, the line of her camisole half across those gorgeous breasts of hers showing the contrast as she flushed a pale pink he wanted to see more of. He started to kiss his way up toward her neck. "Like that, Bones?" he couldn't help murmuring against the fragrant skin of her neck, smiling to himself as he saw her nipples tighten again as he repeated his question from earlier. She smelled like lemons, and honey, and _Bones_. Her exhaled "yes, don't stop," another echo from earlier, made his erection jump, hard, in response.

"Good," he replied, huskily, "because I've only done your back so far, and I was really going to regret not doing your front." The edge of her mouth quirked as she still reclined languidly against him, and she tipped her head to the side when he started nuzzling her neck, his warm hands finding their way under the hem of her camisole to brush her bare skin. While one hand splayed possessively against the flat of her stomach, his hand half under the waistband of her shorts as he held her, the other trailed its way, brushing and stroking, across each rib and up the line of her sternum, before branching out to tease its way over the warm silken globes of her breasts.

Brennan's own hands seemed to find purpose as she brought them to either side of her, bearing down with her palms onto the line of his thighs, feeling the solid heat of his musculature under her questing fingers, rubbing her way down and then back up again. He shifted behind her, sliding his leg out from behind her, until she was solidly nestled between his legs, and could feel his hard length pressing into her back. He'd also moved to nuzzle his way down the other side of her neck, his hands on her breasts kneading and cupping her gently but firmly, each stroke of his fingertips on her sending spikes of heated pleasure through her.

"Enjoying the view" would be an understatement for what Booth was feeling right now as he watched Bones smile like a cat and run her hands down his legs, all the while letting him run his hands and mouth over her perfect soft skin and inhale her incredible fragrance. Her silky hair slipped over his neck as he moved her from one side to the other so he could taste the other side of her neck, and he looked forward to feeling it through his fingers again, this time on purpose. Her breasts were weighty and perfect in his hands, her nipples hard under his thumbs, her breaths becoming more shallow and rapid as he took his time tasting and touching her. He'd fantasized so many times about finally having her, and he'd be damned if he ever thought that something as clichéd as giving his gorgeous partner a backrub would provide the entrée. But he wasn't going to complain—he was a man who seized opportunities.

Brennan found herself stretching and arching under Booth's hands, his slow nuzzling, fondling touches making her so aroused and yet loathe to move lest he stop his attentions that she wondered at herself. She was as often the initiator in her past experiences with men, but here she was, letting Booth have his way with her body. And oh, did she want to let him, if the earlier, more chaste backrub was any indication of what he might do.

Booth's hands on her breasts slid up and over her nipples, and he pulled lightly at the fabric now bunched under his palms until she raised her arms high enough to let him pull the top off. His own breath hitched at the sight of her beautiful top half laid bare before him, and his hands brushed over her again, almost reverently, as he traced each curve of each breast, top, sides and bottom, her roseate nipples hardening under his fingertips. Their swell and dip at her sternum, their sway over her toned stomach, gave way to the curves of her waist -- the thin cotton boxers were the only thing keeping him now from seeing her completely. She was already more beautiful than she'd imagined.

He brushed his hand teasingly under the waistband of the boxers, and she hummed a soft response at his flickering touch. "You're still wearing clothes," she said, her eyes still closed and a satisfied smile tipping the corners of her mouth. "You've at least got to take your shirt off," she said then, sitting forward and turning over her shoulder to shoot him a sexy soft smile, before turning further and tugging his own shirt up by the hem. He raised his arms, obliging, then smiled at her in return as she ran her own warm hands down his shoulders and chest, her eyes hungrily taking him in as she straddled his lap.

Her nimble strong fingers were tracing the line of each muscle of his chest and abdomen, and he'd never been so glad for every sit up, chin up, curl, bench press and push up he'd ever done if Bones looking at him and touching him like this was the reward he was going to get. Her fingertips were soft, her blunt nails not scratching as she touched him, exploring, each brush or press of her hands flooding him with warmth. His hands at her waist pulled her forward until their naked chests pressed together, and one hand came up to her neck to bring her in for a kiss. One of her hands made its way to his bicep, gripping him lightly as she threaded her other hand behind them, gripping the back of his neck, as her lips met his and each of them groaned at the contact.

He sipped at her mouth just as he'd savored those first tastes of her hands, taking his time as she sighed and responded, her own tongue stroking his cheeks as he sucked at her lips lightly, traced the line of her lips and her teeth with his tongue. Her mouth tasted like honey and brandy and something else, _Bones_, he wouldn't taste anywhere else, and his erection twitched strongly between them when she shifted, sighing, as his hand at her waist started trailing its way up her spine.

Brennan was practically melting at the way he was touching her so slowly—she was anything but tired, now, but he'd so relaxed her before this point that she was far less inclined to rush anything, content for once just to respond to him and see what happened next. She let her hand at his arm trail back to his sides, tracing each defined intercostal and abdominal muscle as he flexed and moved as he kept shifting to touch her. He broke the kiss to trail his mouth down the line of her throat, pausing at the hollow of her neck to lick teasingly there. Her head fell back of its own accord, her hair sliding over his hand at the back of her neck, and he reveled in the sight of her eyes closing as he continued to suck and lick at her.

He'd waited years to taste her—he was going to take his time, now, and taste every inch of her if he had his way, he decided, and so far, it seemed like she was going to let him. He loved when Bones was feeling cooperative. He nuzzled her then, a slight chuckle rising from her as his stubble scratched the skin of her chest as his mouth traveled lower, his own hand at her neck sliding back to her shoulders as his mouth found purchase over one of her delectable breasts. She gasped, her hips grinding into his even as her chest arched away from him, her weight falling into the supporting hand at her shoulders. He lapped at the curves of her, tracing the outline of each breast as it dipped and curved away from her rib cage, her own hands splaying and grasping at his shoulder and bicep as he buried his head in her breasts, increasing the pressure and suction as he filled his mouth with her, first one, then the other.

She was whimpering soon, and if Booth thought that her soft grunts from earlier when he'd been massaging her were sexy, well, he was wrong. He paused as he laved her breasts with his tongue to look up at her as she arched away from him, bright spots of pink appearing on her cheeks as she started to pant, her chest heaving lightly the longer he touched her. A glow of purely alpha-male pride joined the burning ache in his groin and his chest, his need to protect and possess her and give himself to her all indistinguishable, all part of the same thought and feeling he'd had for a while now, a feeling that could only be summed up as "_Mine_."

Brennan was nearly beside herself at the sensations he was creating in her. The sharp rasp of his stubble over her sensitive skin—he hadn't had time in a day or so to shave or change, they'd been working nonstop, and the re-emerging whiskers prickled and stabbed at her pleasantly—coupled that with the hot feel of his firm velvet tongue flicking and sucking and teasing, his mouth sucking hard at her, and she could hardly tell where his mouth ended and she began. She held hard to him as he continued to suck at her, each new tug of his mouth bringing an echoing throb down below. She moaned at one particularly firm pass of his tongue over her nipple, her hands almost clawing at him in reflex. His hand at her shoulders held her firmly against him, even as her own hips ground into his, the hard twitching length of him under her telling her that as slowly as he was handling her, his own need echoed her own. With an effort, she managed to look at him, dazed, as he continued to nuzzle and kiss her with no seeming intent on hurrying things. She didn't know how long she could last with just his mouth and hands on her. She'd never felt this way before with anyone, a sensation she seemed to have regularly with Booth in her life.

When they first met, she disliked him for how uncomfortable he made her feel about the way she dealt with things. She'd really disliked the way he understood things she never told him. But like the stones at the edge of the ocean, he'd worn her down, and as she'd gotten to know him better, she usually rolled with whatever her sent at her, rather than fighting against the force of him. When he'd died, she only then realized that it wasn't that she'd learned to put up with him—it was that she could no longer imagine doing without him. When precisely that changed no longer seemed relevant, just that it had.

Booth paused in his ministrations to meet her glazed eyes as she looked at him, her eyes almost azure with desire. "_Mine_," he thought again, placing one soft kiss on her sternum, then pushing her off his lap with one hand, even as his hand at her shoulders guided her down onto the bed. That accomplished, he pulled away long enough to stand by the side of the bed and rid himself of the rest of his clothing, even as Bones raised her hips off the bed and pushed that last fabric barrier down and away. He inhaled sharply as he looked at her, her dark hair spread out below her, the white expanse of her skin, head to toe, laid out before him, long and curved and toned in all the right places. She looked back, unabashedly admiring him as she rolled up onto her side while he settled himself on the bed back beside her.

"You are so beautiful," he said, lowering his head to taste the curve of her hip, as her own hands reached for him, tracing the line of his buttocks and legs, the firm long muscles twitching under the light warmth of her palms.

"I was going to say much the same thing," she said, her voice low and husky as she memorized the feel of his body beneath her questing fingertips, then smiled at the way his smooth darker skin contrasted with hers where his hands covered her skin—they were a study in contrasts, both of them, but complementary ones.

Kneeling up on all fours as he shifted from tasting her waist and her ribs, he let his tongue and lips explore the side facing up from where she'd rolled over to look at him, making his way down her leg, stopping to suck at her knee and surprising a slight twitch and a laugh from her at the unexpected ticklish spot. He'd filed away that she liked her feet being touched, even as he inhaled sharply as she curled her own body behind him to trail one hand along his back and down the back of his legs, each fingerbrush teasingly light as she unerringly traced each line of muscle and tendon, mapping his anatomy surely and slowly. He twitched under her hands, his skin shuddering at the lightness of her touch, his length twitching, balls tightening further as she continued to touch him. Her hands were making their way back up the inside of his legs, toward his erection, and he knew that if she touched him right now, he'd explode. He was determined to distract her from ending it too quickly.

He'd tasted his way by this time down the swell and dip of her calves to her ankle, tracing the fine bones there with his tongue as she shivered and hissed when his tongue first flickered over the skin there. He smiled to himself as he did it again and she twitched, her hands on him jerking in reflex. He shifted from where he was kneeling to lie down behind her, then promptly pulled her bottom leg out, trapping it all the way to her knee under his weight as he gripped the top ankle, firmly but gently, and held it in place while he nipped teasingly at the arch of her foot, then placed a sucking kiss there. She moaned loudly and jerked like he thought she might, and he smiled again as he put his new-found knowledge to work.

Brennan thought she might come right then and there when Booth started kneading her feet again with his hands, each firm stroke of his fingers on heel, arch or toe followed by a kiss, or a bite, or a suck, his warm fingers and tongue melting her utterly. She thrashed involuntarily, moaning and whimpering as he continued, reduced to panting moans when he started sucking her toes. She was so caught up in the sensation that she didn't immediately register when he let go of one foot and rolled her so he could give the same attention to the other, but the light press of his teeth, the teasing flick of his tongue into her other arch made her jerk and moan all over again. She panted, limbs weighted and numb, and not just by the way his weight pinned her so that he could keep going—she was unable to do anything but whimper as he lavished her other foot with the same kisses, strokes, and sucks as the first. He was still sucking her toes when he rolled her onto her back again, then started kissing and licking his way up the inside of her legs. She was panting, still limp under the sensations still lingering, as she came to sense the light nip of his teeth on the inside of her leg.

"Oh, God, Booth," she moaned, as he started licking the very top of her thigh, right at the inner join of her hip.

He had settled between her legs, pinning her thighs to the bed with his forearms as he looped her legs over his shoulders. His hot breath ghosted her folds as he said, huskily, the smell of her heavenly up this close, "Like I said earlier, Bones, I always finish what I start." He pressed one soft, sucking kiss at the very top of her thigh, then melted her all over again.

Booth loved it when women responded to him in bed, and it was a point of pride, not possession, when they enjoyed themselves—truth be told he enjoyed getting them off as much, maybe more, than himself. But Bones was a whole new ballgame, and as much as he wanted to be inside her, he could really content himself with just doing some variant on what he'd done to her so far as long as she kept gasping and moaning—she just tasted and looked and sounded so good. The core of her didn't disappoint, either, and he groaned at her flavor as he first tasted her, her answering mewl as she bucked away from his tongue egging him on. He tasted each part of her teasingly first, light flicks of his tongue over her entrance and along the line of her folds, circling her visibly throbbing clitoris. He teased her then, only gradually increasing the pressure and length of his flicks, and soon she was trembling and panting as he held himself back, wanting to prolong her pleasure as long as possible.

She was whining and calling his name, her legs quivering with the tension he was building in her. Slowly, he licked her more firmly, interspacing the strokes of his tongue with small nipping kisses when she started panting too strongly. He finally plunged his tongue into her and she screamed, arching away from him so strongly that he had to jerk her back down into the bed with his hands before he could taste her again. He bore down with all the weight in his arms as he did it again, and she bucked forward this time, his tongue delving more deeply into her. He curled and flicked his tongue in her depths, and she moaned, starting to beg, her breath sobbing. He sped up the pace, thrusting harder with his tongue so he could bring her to climax, and she moaned more loudly in response, her breath becoming even more ragged.

Brennan heard herself, at a remove, crying "Oh, Booth, please," and "too much," as he explored the last parts of her that she'd hidden from him, and made himself as at home there as he had with the rest of her body. She was almost drowning in his attentions, so overwhelmed by its happening at all, after she'd decided right after his "death" that he wasn't interested, and made up her mind to suppress how she felt-- the reality of it was too much for her. She never got what she wanted—that was just how her life was. She just hoped that if this was a dream, she wouldn't wake up.

One of the hands holding her down to the bed shifted, the broad splay of his palm still over her stomach and hip, but for his thumb and index finger, now teasingly circling the sensitive nub that started throbbing hours ago when he first put his hands on her. Her breath shuddered in her chest again as his mouth on her sped its suction and thrusting, while his fingers on her started slowly stroking and pulling.

Everything was numb. She didn't exist anymore, except at her center, where he was, the exquisite torture of him tasting and teasing her so painfully wonderful that she couldn't hear, couldn't see, couldn't feel anything but him. When her release finally came, she screamed, seizing so strongly she arched off the bed almost completely, despite the weight of him holding her down. Tears streamed from her eyes as she sobbed and shook from the force of his loving attentions, too much to have experienced only now, for the first time.

Booth was shocked by the force of her reaction, and seeing that she was trembling, tears streaming from her eyes, he stopped and gathered her into his arms, lying beside her and trying to warm her against the length of her body.

"Oh, shh, Bones, hey, it's alright," he soothed, as her breath shuddered in her chest, her eyes streaming still. His heart clenched for her even as a wash of pride warmed him—she was reacting too strongly for this to be her usual orgasm, and he now recalled that slightly stunned look on her face when he gave her that teasing speech about making love a long time ago. What the hell was wrong with other guys who'd been with her before him, hell, even Sully, if she'd never had someone make love to her before? She continued to cry, little whimpers and shivers still shaking her as tears kept leaking from her eyes.

"Oh, my sweetheart," he said, shifting so he could curl around her from behind, and pulling her in to the crook of his shoulder, "shh, baby, don't cry," he said, his voice catching and his own throat thickening as he saw how shaken she was. He pulled her closer to him, the arm under her circling her waist as he smoothed the hair back from her face, then tried to brush off the tears that continued to fall.

"Bones, lover, it's okay, really, just don't cry, please," he asked, as she continued to shiver, small gasps still the only intelligible thing to escape from her throat. He lay down fully behind her, pulling her flush against him as he murmured endearments into her ear, rubbing her sides and her front with his free hand as he still held her to him and tried to envelop her within the curve of his body. Her trembling reaction finally ceased, her gasps and sobs yielding to sniffles, then mere uneven breathing. He propped himself up again, taking in her tear-streaked face as she lay, eyes closed, huddling into him.

"My poor Bones," he said, bending forward to kiss her temple and forehead, the shell of her ear, the soft sheltered spot right behind her earlobe, which he paused to suck gently. "My sweet Temperance," he continued, pressing another soft kiss at the end of her jaw, then pressed himself up further, still holding her to him, so he could lean over to kiss more of her face. He kissed the eyebrow and the closed eyelid of the eye facing him, then did the same for the side of her nose and her mouth.

She turned her face up toward him then, her eyes still cloudy with tears and deep with emotion. He leant in, pressed a kiss on her forehead, then her nose, then her lips, as she gazed quietly at him, then kissed him back when he pressed his lips to hers. "I'm sorry, Bones," he murmured, when they parted for air again, not sure if he was apologizing for every lousy guy who failed to give her what she deserved, or for failing to realize he was overwhelming her. Either way, he was sorry, and hated to see her cry, so he supposed it didn't really matter. He was just glad she'd calmed down.

"It's alright," Brennan said softly, understanding even through the slight daze she was in that he meant something more than just being sorry that he'd made her cry because he was too skillful a lover. She craned her head up then to kiss him, wanting his warm reassuring lips on hers again.

As he obliged, his heart unclenched a little, his erection took the opportunity to twinge firmly along the curve of her bottom. He flushed, embarrassed at his body's insistence on impolitely reminding him about what they'd been doing before her unexpected reaction. "Sorry," he mumbled sheepishly, but she just chuckled, then let go of the hand circling her waist to pull him down for another, deeper kiss.

"Far be it from me to keep you from finishing something you started," she smiled, her low voice murmuring against his lips after they parted for breath. He looked at her, assessing, but she was serious, affection, desire, and something deeper and more open than he'd ever seen in her eyes looking back at him.

Brennan saw her partner's hesitation, realizing then how she'd shocked him, but it wasn't his fault that she'd never allowed another man so close that real loving intimacy would affect her so. Now that she knew, she wouldn't be so overwhelmed, and his own hard length behind her called to her attention the fact that despite the storm squall in her orgasm's aftermath, her body still yearned for the rest of the dance, the prelude now having been well and truly observed. She was having a hard time finding words for what she was feeling, though, so she chose action instead, turning in his arms to face him and trail her hand up the long muscular line from his knee to his hip, all the while watching his prominent manhood jump in response. A small smile bloomed on her face as he watched her watch him respond to her. Her hand traced its way across his stomach, and she snorted lightly when his length twitched as she circled his navel with one teasing fingertip.

"Don't laugh," he chided, then rolled her onto her back, drinking in the sight of her under him. "It's not polite to laugh when someone's just having a natural biological response to the sexiest, most beautiful woman he's ever seen in his life, Temperance."

"Sorry," Brennan replied, nonetheless flushing at the compliment. "I wouldn't want to interfere with a natural biological response," she said, her voice soft as she looked up at him, a smile curving both of their mouths as his use of her oft-repeated denial of anything approaching sexual intimacy, much less love, transformed his joke into something close to the opposite. A flash of memory struck her as she watched him—he was looking at her the way her parents used to look at each other. How long had she failed to notice, because he wasn't overt about any interest he might have, unlike most men? Booth wasn't most men. She'd just been wrong to think he wasn't interested, simply because he wasn't obvious.

Booth was feeling a little tongue-tied, now that Bones had literally come apart in his arms. It was too soon to tell her he loved her, but by the way she'd reacted, and then let him calm her, Booth figured he might actually be able to tell her sometime soon—certainly he wouldn't have to wait another year or more, or however long it was since before Sully asked her to leave with him when he realized that he'd kill anyone who tried to hurt her, but couldn't kill anyone who made her happy, even if she ended up going away.

His heart practically exploded right out of his chest, therefore, when she reached up with one hand to pull his head down to kiss her, then whispered "I love you, Booth" against his lips before giving him the softest, best kiss of his life. It was like she'd set him on fire, and her lips meeting his, the soft heat of her mouth, did nothing to quench it. He slid one arm under her back, pressing her to him even as he let his weight settle around and onto her, the other hand at her nape pressing his mouth to hers. Her own arms came around his back as he gathered her to him, their bodies flush against one another as he drank from her mouth like he was dying of thirst.

Booth kissed her until he ran out of air, breaking it off only to pant "Bones, I love you so much" before pulling her in for another kiss. Her hands on his back splayed and dug into his skin lightly as she shifted under him, pulling him closer, her hot perfect breasts pressed to his chest. This time, it was Bones who broke the kiss off, gasping for air, and he took the opportunity provided as her head, lolled to the side as she wheezed, to resume tasting her.

He bent his head to her neck, flicking his tongue lightly down its front and then into the hollow made by her collarbone. Her hands flexed on him as he sucked at the skin there, her hips beginning to squirm under him. As he continued to kiss and lick his way across the top of her chest, her own hands stroked their way down his back, trailing their way across his sides and between them, over his stomach. He was so caught up in watching her flush again under his tongue as he recaptured one of her breasts in his mouth that her hands on his length came as a surprise, and he gasped against the skin of her breasts.

Brennan cupped him firmly in one hand as she took a grip on his solid erection in the other, then started to stroke him with one hand as she kneaded his scrotum while pressing her thumb on his perineum with the other. His hips jerked as she first took hold of him, and she stifled her own gasp at how solid and hot he was in her hands, even as she determined to do something to start to return all the pleasure he'd brought her. She set a slow rhythm, enjoying the look of ecstatic, closed-eyed concentration on his face as she continued to manipulate him, her hands sure and firm. She was intent on her task, though, and was looking between them, rather than at his facial expression, when she felt his mouth return to her breast, sucking and swirling his tongue over her in the same rhythm she was setting, his other hand coming up to palm her other breast, before his own fingers started stroking her with the same pressure she was using on him.

It was sweet torture for both of them. Brennan controlled how fast and how hard he suckled and stroked at her by how quickly and firmly she sped her palms and fingertips over him. She was finding it harder and harder to concentrate, and his own hips were jerking away from her touch in unconscious reaction, but she managed to maintain something approaching an increasing pace, before he groaned against the skin of her breast as she stopped the rhythm she'd set to run her thumb firmly over the head of his penis.

Though she hadn't intended for him to reciprocate, only intended to heighten his pleasure, he shifted immediately so that the hand manipulating the breast he hadn't already claimed with his mouth now started stroking her clitoris in time with the pass of her thumb over his glans. Brennan moaned aloud at the new pressure, then again as he set a new rhythm between them, one building her back up again toward a new climax. The tension that rebuilt in her as they began kissing and caressing each other again became almost painful, and her own hands on him lost their grip as he renewed his dual assault on the nipple under his tongue and her clitoris under his talented fingers.

She was writhing under him now, and her wordless moans and whimpers as he sped and slowed his ministrations, interspersed with gasped "Booths" were as gratifying and pleasurable to him as what she'd been doing with those fabulous hands of hers before he distracted her. Her slickening folds gave him all that he needed to keep stroking her sensitive nub with increasing pressure and speed, and the way she bucked against his hand told him she was close.

"Oh god, Booth, please," Brennan managed to say before moaning "inside," then whimpering at a particularly deft pass of his tongue and his thumb across those two epicenters of pleasure. He let go of her breast with his mouth, his fingers on her never stopping as he shifted, half-lying across her to fish for his pants on the floor next to the bed. She was only dimly aware of his actions but was glad he was prepared, because "right bedside table" was too many words. "Booth," and "now" were about all she could manage, and not even that as he slipped a finger inside her empty, aching walls while his thumb kept up its circling torture over her clitoris.

His weight shifted up and away from her as a second finger joined the first one inside her, her hips bucking against his hand, seeking more, needing more. She moaned again, her demand of "more" unintended, but he heard it, curling his fingers inside her in time with his thumb rubbing her harder outside. Her breaths became shorter, more shallow, as her self-consciousness left her again, all sense of herself reduced to what he was doing to her. She heard herself making noises she'd never known she could make before, but was too lost to sensation to wonder at.

Bones' tight walls were clenching around his fingers as Booth worked to roll on the condom, and the sight of her thrashing with utter abandon beneath him, wanting him, wanting more, was almost enough to make him explode right then and there. He shifted to kneel over her then, his hand in her and on her working her into a frenzy until she suddenly stiffened, her walls clenching around him with such flooding, rippling force as she screamed from her climax that he groaned in response. He moved his hand quickly, tilting her hips up to receive him as he slid himself inside her slowly, then groaned again as the aftershocks still rippling through her seized and caressed him.

A moaned, relieved, aroused "aaaahhhhh" was the only thing she could muster as he came to a stop at the end of her walls, his own answering groan his masculine echo. "Oh God, Bones" he gasped, as one last aftershock massaged his length as her walls stretched then retightened around him, taking him completely into herself. He shifted again to brace himself on his forearms and look down at her, the look on her face one of bliss and completion. He withdrew slowly, hating to leave her encompassing warmth, but knowing the return would be all the sweeter. Her own hips followed him, her whimper as he first left her nearly doing him in. His return was not as slow and controlled as he wanted it to be, but the sight of her below him as her forehead furrowed at his leaving her made his own body's reflexes begin to take hold of him.

As he filled her again, this time more firmly, Brennan moaned "Booth" as her eyes fluttered open at the feel of him stretching her. His look of lustful shock as she shifted to pull him in further, her legs circling and hooking behind him only made her moan again. She writhed, grinding and rotating her hips against him as he filled her, needing more. Her hands found their way around his upper arms, grasping and tugging at him as she ground her hips into him again.

"Jesus, Bones," he gasped, as she then squeezed him from within. He pushed himself away, only to fall into her again, her legs around him strongly pulling him back, her head falling back and her back arching away from the bed as the head of his length snugged hard at the end of her walls. She whimpered at the pleasurable shock, and he determined to get her to do it again. He withdrew and returned, then found a rhythm that soon had them both groaning and gasping for air. Their hips met again as she shifted her arms to clasp his neck, and she held on for dear life. They moved as one, almost occupying the same space as their chests pressed together, their mouths sealed together, their hips drew apart only to find each other again. Their kisses only stopped long enough so they could breathe or cry out at a particularly pleasurable rejoining, and tears again started streaming from her eyes, this time not from startled surprise, but from joy. His own eyes overflowed at her response, his own reflexes taking over as his strokes became more erratic and her wordless cries became louder.

Booth felt himself gathering, and with the last of his voluntary control, moved one hand between them to bring her over the edge. He lightly stroked her with his thumb, the wetness escaping her as they joined over and over again coating her and easing his way. She arched away from him, her breasts crowning, her wordless cry rising a register as he groaned out "Bones, I love you so much" while he stroked her again with his hand. With the fifth pass of his thumb, she let out a long wordless scream, her walls clenching around him so tightly as her orgasm tore her in two, her limbs clasping him to her falling utterly limp to the bed, that he lost the last bit of his control. He bucked out and slammed into her again, his hips taking over as she flooded and rippled around him, the sight of her utterly lost to sensation pulling his own release from him in a blinding, pulsing explosion as his hips pulled out, then returned with all the weight in his body one last time. His collapse onto her was met with a prolonged whimpered "Booth," as his weight forced him deeper inside, prompting one last aftershock from her.

He panted into the space between her shoulder and neck as her own chest rose and fell in gasping wheezes beneath him. "Oh my God, Bones," he finally managed, his voice rasping in her ear. "That was…"

"Incredible," she near-whispered, her usually melodious voice strained from the force of her screams of enjoyment.

"Yeah, that," he gasped out. She chuckled, her breasts pressing against his as the laughs caused her to move, and he pushed himself up far enough to take her in as she laughed. She was stunningly beautiful—hair sweaty, lips bright pink and swollen, her expression completely, wide open. And she was smiling at him. His heart clenched again as he thought, disbelievingly, "_Mine_."

She saw a look of disbelieving relief pass over his face, and in the wake of their loving, had some inkling, though she usually had a hard time doing so, of what he was thinking. "I love you, Booth," she said again, craning her head up to kiss him. His sweet, lingering kiss in response reassured her that with him, at least, she had said the right thing.

Groaning, he broke his lips from hers, again panting for air. He pushed himself up and away, then flopped to the side of her as she gasped when he left her. "Oh," she whimpered, still too limp to move to embrace him. She felt him shifting beside her, then found herself hitched into the curve of his body, an echo of when he held her as she shattered from the first orgasm he brought her.

"I love you too, Bones," came his gravelly voice in her ear. "Let's get some sleep for a bit, hunh? I'll even let you give me backrub, later, okay?"

Her laugh as he held her and she snuggled closer to him was the only answer he needed.


	5. Beloved V

_**Warning: This is a violent one, no smut at all. Character deaths. B/B established relationship. **_

* * *

_**Beloved**_

You were beloved once.

* * *

The knife slid between the first killer's ribs easily, avoiding the surrounding bone to puncture his lung. Once, twice, a third time, each time between a different rib, to make sure that there was no chance of escape. The knife slashed across his chest, before pressing, razor sharp, into the other lung, the resistance of flesh yielding to the edge of the knife and the strength of you as you wielded it. There was a popping sound each time the point pierced the flesh, a wet hiss as the blade left the body.

You knew where to slide the knife. Your training made that knowledge almost instinctive. You wished there was more time than this quick dispatch, but at least he'd suffer a while before the rest of his breath and blood left him. It wasn't nearly enough to assuage your howling, animal grief, but at least this man was a dead man now, no matter what.

He was down, blood bubbling from his lips, eyes glazed, but still capable of seeing you standing over him with a furious smile of revenge on your face. He might not know who you were or why you'd thrust the knife between his ribs so many times, but he knew he deserved it, whatever your particular reason. Your smile was twisted, and painful, and you knew there was no going back now that you'd set down this road, but there was nothing for you to go back to, anyway. There was no home anymore, now that your only home, in the arms of your beloved, was gone. Your insistence on revenge took precedence over everything else, even as you pretended to go about your daily affairs, to others apparently grieving but getting on with your life. But inside, you were calculated and hot with purpose. Family and friends, your professional career, were irrelevant. Tracking down each man who'd slaughtered your beloved was everything. The only thing, now.

This man was the first of the four killers who took your beloved. The evidence and witnesses at least gave you that much information. The double-sided knife was nondescript, one of a million sold to the military, militiamen, and assorted conspiracy nuts last year. There were no fingerprints, no telltale forensic evidence to prove you were here-- you were too smart for that, as hot as your fury made you. The only thing they might pin on you was motive. And under the circumstances, motive alone wouldn't be enough for them to even bother questioning you. You smiled again as you watched the man bleeding and dying before you. One down, three to go.

* * *

No one who was asked to describe either of you would choose "sentimental." And you weren't, really. But beloved was what you were, to each other, and it was what you called one another when you were alone. You were beloved, once. So was your beloved. It had been so long since either of you were that it was nice to be reminded, each to the other.

* * *

The contacts you'd made over the course of your work couldn't help when you first learned your beloved died in that ambush on a case, the rare one those days that you weren't working together. Both of you declined most attempts to obtain your work for other endeavors, insisting as was right and only the truth that you did your best work together, and were best able to protect one another that way as well.

You knew it wouldn't have happened if you'd been there. There would have been no knife in the dark, three other men kicking and punching while the stabbing continued, because you would have seen that slight telltale shadow, that one hint of someone lying in wait up ahead. Your combat training made you aware of such things. But alone, having to rely on one's self, with no backup? There was too much to keep track of. It wasn't a question of your beloved's personal failure. It was a case of inadequate backup, an interagency failure that led to your love bleeding to death from multiple stab wounds, and which now led you down this one-way road, away from the only point in your life when you'd been truly, blissfully happy.

Your contacts only had hints of who it had been-- no proof, not like you needed before you could safely mete out the revenge that was owing. You marshaled your thoughts after it was clear that the officials were stymied as well, all channels blocked or dead ends. So you did what you were so often loathe to do before you found that one person you could count on, the one person who could no longer help you. You reached out for help from an unexpected source.

* * *

Sully sat opposite you at the nondescript cafe in Miami. "I'm so sorry to hear it," he said, his face stricken with shock and grief as he processed your news. "And they're doing nothing? They said that there's no other information to go on?"

"That's right," you said. "They claim it's the end of the road. But it's not. It can't be. But I'm at a dead end, and I can't push it officially any further without being reprimanded or fired. They've already bent the rules enough as it is allowing me access to the case file."

He shook his head, sympathetic and more. He was a friend, in the end, even after things changed between you and your beloved, and he was loyal to friends. He'd lost a partner before, and he knew what you were going through. He thought quietly as you waited, then looked at the bag sitting under your chair-- a nondescript briefcase that no one would recognize, later, as yours. "I assume that's all the information you have?"

You nodded. "Informal and personal contacts too, not just the official ones. I've included the..." your voice choked as you said it, "photos, for all they might tell you."

He winced, but nodded. "They might. Never know."

You pulled the bag out, slid it over to him. He stuffed it under his chair, for now. "You'd better go," he said then, sipping his coffee. "Word on the street is you're out for revenge, though no one would blame you. We'd better not meet out like this again. I'll be in touch at that number you gave me."

"Thanks, Sully," you said. "I appreciate it." You stood then, no smile of thanks cracking the still, calm mask on your face as you spoke once more. "Just find out who did it, where I can find them. I'll take care of the rest."

He nodded grimly, your unwavering resolution apparent to him. "I don't doubt it. I'll call as soon as I find something."

You strode off, back to the airport. Back to your job. This one day round trip excursion would never occur to most people, even the ones who suspected you would go rogue, even the ones who knew how devastated you were, how your whole world had ended-- they all assumed you had other things to do on a weekend then travel the whole length of the coast to begin plotting your revenge. They assumed you would follow the rules, let the people assigned to the case handle the matter as far as they could.

They were wrong. Rules were for people who had something to lose, and you'd already lost everything when you lost your beloved.

* * *

The disposable cell phone you'd purchased buzzed silently inside your jacket, indistinguishable to everyone else from your real phone,. You stood from the table where you'd been having this meeting, this useless meeting while they told you for the last time that there was nothing more to be done.

"Excuse me," you said, then answered the phone with your clipped, brusque last name as you always did. You stood and walked out of the room, closing the door behind you.

"I have something," came Sully's voice at the end of the line. "I'll send you the quay where I'm keeping the _Temperance_, you should come down this weekend."

"I'll be there," you said. Satisfaction surged through you. You'd begun your own preparations while waiting to hear, packed your own bag of equipment, ready to go just in case. The weapons you needed you could buy anywhere, without trouble. No one would suspect you, fine, upstanding member of the community that you were. You were respected.

They should fear you, not respect you. You stifled the urge to smile and returned to the room, accepting their useless apologies one last time before you set off down the road, alone, to the end. Maybe you'd meet your beloved again when it was all over.

* * *

You had to hand it to your beloved's killers. They'd scattered like rats, been hard for Sully to find. But sailing around sketchy ports in the Carribean had given him contacts you'd never have been able to make, and his investigative skills were intact despite his "retirement." You both sat huddled over the table to review the photos he'd managed to get, the most likely places they could be found. You stayed belowdecks as the pizza deliveryman came and went, stayed out of sight of the portholes so no one could tell Sully wasn't alone. You'd arrived in the dark, and would either leave before the dawn came, or stay around the clock until it was dark again. This close to executing your plan, it wouldn't do to let anyone see you coming or going.

* * *

You took care of the first man during a business trip you just happened to need to take less than forty miles from where Sully found him. You were there, took care of the first, and back at your hotel in less than three hours-- you could have been out to dinner, or sightseeing anywhere. You came and went in the business clothes you'd been wearing. The gloves, the black clothing, the other equipment was burned to ash in an oil barrel now fueling a feast for some homeless under the freeway. They thought you were fantastic, offering them that food and the fuel and the book of matches for the things in the barrel. That they were so drunk they couldn't possibly describe you made it all the better. You left them a case of beer, just to make sure of their liquid oblivion.

* * *

It took some doing to confirm that the second man was where he was supposed to be, and to arrange for time away from work so you could take care of him. The second wasn't actually that far from home, time or distance wise, but the location was unusual enough that you could take no chances on being seen anywhere nearby. The first man's death hadn't so far appeared on the officials' radar. So far, your revenge was secret, as it needed to be. One-to-one justice was all that you asked, since the officials were impotent.

You laid in wait for the second for hours, black-clad and camoflauged, all that was needed to wait in the dark. He was bigger than you, and it was a fight to subdue him, but you finally did, revelling in the balsa-wood and squishing sensation of bone and flesh yielding to the side kick of your steel-reinforced boots to his ribs. Again, the knife found a home between ribs, popping and hissing as it entered and left. Four stabs, one each for those left on your beloved. Killer number two also saw you smiling, standing, revenge-full, before his life hissed and bubbled from him.

Two down, two more to go.

* * *

When you got home from taking care of the the second, there were two telephone messages-- one from Angela, one from Rebecca, both wanting to know how you were, where you'd been. You called them back, assured them that you were doing as well as could be expected, thanked them for calling. You told them you'd just needed some time to yourself, had gone out of town "to get away from old sights and be by myself. Thinking. You know."

Despite the fact that your beloved's death drew you closer to them, they both felt uncomfortable pressing for details. They accepted your quiet assertions that you were handling it, and by all appearances, you were. You went to work every day, solved your cases with your beloved's official replacement with vigourous zeal. You didn't come in hung over, or engage in other destructive behavior. No one could really blame you if you were quiet and grave, disinclined to discuss anything personal with anyone right now. They thought that in time your grief would fade, and you would be able to take up the life you'd had before your beloved ever entered it.

They were wrong. Your grief was as raw now as it was when you first heard the news-- though in fact the grief hit you when your beloved missed the first call home. You knew then, before it was official, before it was even time to go looking, that it was over. You were still bleeding inside, and always would, for as long and even after you took your revenge. Another reason to continue, to make the last two of the four bleed as your beloved had, as you still did.

* * *

You had another business trip that you arranged to have requested of you. Grumbling and protesting, you went, citing business undone at your office that would only get staler if you went away. You had to do complain; the second man's death had come up on the radar, and while no one questioned you, they did take the time to inform you that a possible suspect was killed. Your quiet, firm "good" shocked them, but it also deflected attention, since they would assume that you wouldn't wish to be caught had you actually done it. No matter what they thought, though, without you and your beloved working the case, they wouldn't find the ID of each man's attacker, much less reconstruct their height, weight and build, either of which would be needed to find enough of the killer's identity to act upon. You two were the best-- the ones they'd assigned to the case simply weren't. It would take the best to stop you, and only you and your beloved would have been able to do it. You were hardly going to stop yourself.

They were wrong to think you wouldn't wish to be caught. When it was over, you would make sure everyone knew who slaughtered your beloved. You would make sure they knew that you took care of your own, even when nobody else would. That what you were doing might appear objectively wrong was so unimportant as to be laughable. All that mattered was your burning certainty that the road you'd started down was the only and best means of avenging your beloved.

* * *

The third man was harder; he wasn't where he was supposed to be, and the night you'd planned to dispose of him gave way to the next night before you were able to find him again. And then he put up a fight, a good one, that resulted in scrapes and bruises and a few broken ribs, before you finally subdued him, your rage giving you strength to end him in spite of your injuries. You changed back into your normal clothes before you went back to the hotel, then parked in the one area lacking surveillance cameras, fortunately right at the exit. The hotel management, your friends and family at home, were all horrified to learn that you'd nearly been run down in the hotel parking lot, and that you'd suffered such injuries, your business clothes torn and abraded and bloody from where you're thrown yourself out of the way.

Your injuries didn't bother you, though-- they didn't even register. The only thing you felt besides the howling rage and grief of your beloved's absence, of not getting to say goodbye, of having to wake up every day alone, was the satisfaction of hearing and feeling and seeing the _pop hiss snap crunch squish thump gurgle puddle gasp bubble blessed cursed silence_ of each killer's falling and dying-- and the feel of the smile on your face as each one joined the other.

* * *

You had to wait almost a month before you went after the fourth man. The third wasn't discovered, but your ribs were still healing from that fight to go after the last killer-- you wouldn't compromise your beloved's revenge by not being fit enough to finish it completely, though you were fairly sure rage alone would carry you through.

In the mean time, you prepared-- for finding the fourth and for when it was over. When the fourth killer was gone, everyone would find out that you'd avenged your beloved-- though you'd leave Sully out of it, of course. He'd been a true friend, despite everything. You spent time with your family, your beloved's family, your friends, and they thought you were gradually healing. You weren't. But you wanted to make sure that you knew that you loved them, no matter what you were planning. Though you would never confess, until it was over, you wanted them to have a memory that they'd been beloved, in their way.

You went on that rare out of town job assignment, the ones you were starting to take again. You took this one because it would bring you close to the fourth, though of course the quality and speed of your work on the assignment went uncompromised, and the people you were helping sang your praises when the assignment concluded successfully. Of course they did. You were the best at your job, though it would have been easier, over sooner, if your beloved had been there to help you. But it wasn't to be, and that fresh reminder set the rage burning all over again as you left, the last night you were there before your flight home tomorrow.

You found his fetid apartment, the stink and squalor of his environment an appropriate setting for the blackness of a soul who could kill someone like your beloved, and waited. You waited for hours, replaying each bright memory of your short time with your beloved-- all those sweet and passionate and laughter-filled moments that were tinged with the joy and relief of finally knowing what you meant to each other. When the fourth killer came in, you grabbed him from behind, slit his throat with all the strength of your anger and grief. His hot blood cascaded over your hands as you held the body to yours and listened for the end of his breathing. You then let him quietly down to the floor, kicking him over. The force of your one well-placed, rage-filled knife slash cut both the windpipe and the esophagus.

You pulled off your shirt, changed into the other you'd brought, inspected the rest of your clothing for blood. None. You were careful, just as your beloved would have been. You rolled up your bloody shirt and knife in the plastic bag you'd brought, bundled them into your otherwise unremarkable oversized briefcase. You washed your bloodied hands and forearms in his cockroach-infested sink, using a garbage bag to cover your hand as you turned the tap on and off. It wouldn't do to be caught yet-- you would go straight from the airport tomorrow to tell your beloved that it was over.

You slipped on a clean pair of gloves to avoid leaving prints, slipped your bag out the window to let it thump on the ground just outside, then climbed back out into the shadowed alleyway onto which the fourth killer foolishly left his window open. You wouldn't be the best if you didn't take every opportunity some stupid killer presented. So you had-- and now it was over.

* * *

"It's over, beloved," you said quietly, as close to home again as you could be right now, standing over the grave and the headstone. "I got them all for you, every last one."

There wasn't much else to say-- you and your beloved hadn't felt the need to fill every moment with words. Instead, you each were content in the company of each other-- a look, an arm around the shoulder, a kiss or embrace was all that was needed to make up for untold secrets and hurts accrued before you each were beloved. Words weren't really necessary-- your beloved knew without asking, as did you.

Having completed your task and avenged your beloved, you sat on the cold winter ground, facing the monument to your beloved. Your beloved was taken from you at the end of the summer, and it took until yesterday, Valentine's Day, to get your revenge. It was fitting, a last act of love, that you'd slit the fourth killer's heart and let his lifeblood flow out on a day when your arrow-pierced heart was reminded by the sight of meaningless cupids everywhere celebrating a love most people could never dream of experiencing. But you had, until your beloved was taken from you.

The raging animal fury, the heat of which kept you going all these months-- despite the ice surrounding your heart-- cooled and faded. Your body cooled as you sat, fast approaching the temperature of the frozen ground and the frozen untenanted, soulless remains of your beloved lying beneath. You let the cold take you, and smiled as you took one last look at the stonecarved proof of your beloved's life before you. Your eyes closed, but the words on the headstone in front of you would remain. There was room for your own name to be carved underneath, as you'd planned for there to be now that it was over.

_Seeley Booth  
__Beloved Father,  
__Beloved Friend,  
__Beloved Protector,  
__Beloved._

You were beloved once by him, and he was beloved by you still.


	6. A Good Man V S

_**Violent and smutty. Angst. Dark Booth. Part song-fic, NIN's "Closer." Spoilers through The Bone that Blew, and a different take on the meaning of that pained expression on Booth's face after Max's "you're a good man" speech.**_

_**

* * *

  
**_

"_You're a good man. I want that for her_."

That thought pounded through your brain, over and over, and wouldn't shut up, wouldn't leave you alone, all the way through your run.

A good man. That cold-blooded murderer, child-abandoning blithe asshole who thought he could just breeze his way back into her life had no idea how wrong he was. Which was why, of course, you weren't sleeping with his beautiful daughter.

The lyrics of what one of your army buddies called '_angry white boy'_ music pounded through your earbuds, audible still over your hammering pulse and labored breathing – you ran harder and faster, trying to escape what it might mean if you were to act on Max's declaration. If you wanted to make a move on his daughter, you had Max's approval, because he thought you were "a good man." The song was an all-too-real reflection of your thoughts not just at the moment, but ever since you met her. It was supposed to be about drugs, not just sex—but she was both of those, and you were addicted.

No, you weren't sleeping with her. And Lord knew you weren't gay. You sure as hell wanted her. And wanting her was Hell, God's own special torment in return for your sins. "Bones is beautiful" didn't describe it. "She's my salvation," or "I need to bury myself in her until I forget who I've been because she's screaming my name" didn't either.

_You let me violate you, you let me desecrate you  
You let me penetrate you, you let me complicate you_

You'd thought of her, thought of having her and making her yours practically every waking moment since you'd met her—you were amazed you got any work done at all. That first time you met her, that snotty look on her face and that cold stare she gave you when you (admittedly) treated her disrespectfully, so much less than she deserved—she hadn't even come out from around her examination table on that Holy Platform of hers, before you even saw what a goddamned unbelievable goddess she was, and you needed to pound into her. That look in her eye, those lips as they curled over her harsh words, dismissing you—that was all it took before you wanted, no, _needed_ to grab her, tear her clothes off, and fuck that snotty look off her face until she screamed for you, writhing under your pummeling cock, those cold blue eyes glazed over as she screamed "more." You'd give her more.

_Help me, I broke apart my insides,  
Help me, I've got no soul to tell  
Help me, the only thing that works for me,  
Help me get away from myself_

Of course,you felt guilty immediately, and only moreso when she turned out to be right and you the vainglorious asshole you were. She was right—she always was, when it came to your cases. She saw the truth the minute there were enough clues for her brilliant brain to piece them together. And she did that faster than anyone, except maybe you. It was a race to keep up with her.

You weren't a good man. You weren't always just following orders. You let the anger get the best of you. For every minute of torture inflicted on you the few times you'd been stupid enough to captured, there was a slit throat, a rifle shot between the eyes or to the back of the head, a neck snapped from behind—deaths your victims had no chance to fight. You willfully conflated your rage at what their superiors were doing with the conviction that you were "just following orders."

You couldn't let her have enough clues to figure out that your obsession with your kill list wasn't because you regretted each life as you took it. You were trying to atone for each kill because you _didn't _regret any life when you took it—you'd looked _forward_ to some, you were that sick. No matter what each one had done who the _fuck_ were you to play executioner? And yet you had—you'd almost _enjoyed_ it.

_I want to fuck you like an animal  
I want to feel you from the inside  
I want to fuck you like an animal  
My whole existence is flawed  
You get me closer to God_

She helped you with your list, without demanding any further explanation than the meager one you supplied. She never asked any questions, though you knew damned well she wanted to. And she put up with the way you acted like a jealous ape. You were—you just couldn't help himself, one more reason you weren't sleeping with her. If you started, you would never, ever stop. Even as you knew she was the only thing that could save you, make it _stop _so that maybe, someday, you could actually be a good man, you couldn't do it. She was pure, even with everything she'd never told you she'd been through. But you knew. Damaged people knew each other, even when they never discussed it.

All that proclaimed faith, that you so desperately wanted to have. Did you even have it, when the parish priests and CCD nuns brainwashed all the little innocent children with all the things God would do for them if they were just good, and just asked for forgiveness, just loved the Son of their God enough? You'd loved the baby Jesus—it hadn't stopped what happened at home, no matter how hard you prayed. The only thing that stopped it was when you stopped asking, and started acting—all the fervency you'd poured into prayer now channeled through your fists the first time you dealt back to your father what he'd been dealing out to all of them for years. It took months before your father got back the courage to try anything again, but he picked the wrong time, and he'd been pinned up against the wall under your iron-tight clasp on his throat. You'd beaten him to within an inch of his life, and the he moved out as soon as he was out of the hospital—he never came near what was left of your family again. But the look in the eyes of the family you were protecting—you'd hit him as hard in one round as he'd ever hit any of you, all together. They knew. Just because you were defending something that was right didn't cleanse how you accomplished it.

You knew, just _knew_, that if she just took you into her long enough, hard enough, deep enough, locked her legs around you and clawed stripes into your back as she pulled you closer inside her, so close you could dissolve, then you might actually stand some chance at being a good man. You knew that the perfect feel of her in your hands, the weight and heat of her body crashing into yours, the sound of her panting and moaning and begging for more as you did every dirty thing you'd ever dreamed of to her would make you clean, like maybe you never had been, before her.

_You can have my isolation, you can have the hate that it brings  
You can have my absence of faith, you can have my everything_

When she was gone—when she was taken, and you'd been fucking her boss in a useless attempt to forget that glowing white skin, those knowing yet innocent blue eyes—when you might well never see her again, the rage didn't matter. You would be more alone than you ever were if you didn't find her in time—more alone than when the baby Jesus didn't answer your prayers at home or in that stinking hot dungeon. You would never find anyone else who could even begin to know who you were-- she listened to you, helped you as soon as you asked her too—hell, she called you to tell _you_ what to do. You didn't have to do it all by yourself. You would kill him, kill anyone who could have helped get her back and didn't give it their utmost. Everyone who got in your way or gave you a feeble excuse—if you hadn't found that hand reaching for yours, reaching for_ you_, well, apocalyptic would mean something you'd long since ceased to believe in.

It took everything in you not to pick her up in your arms and carry her off to your truck for the feeble privacy it would allow while you buried your head in her breasts, while you heard her heart beat under your ear as you held on to her for dear life, while you made her cry out for you and prove to you that she was still here with each shrieking orgasm you wanted to give her, her hot, warm, alive walls milking every inch of poison from you until you were good again.

Instead, you smiled like a fool at her. Later, you thanked the God you hadn't believed in, not really, in years, that you had her back and that you hadn't had to kill anyone to do it. You wouldn't have regretted the killing—you were grateful for escaping the howling void it would have left if she hadn't blown her way out of that car and grabbed your hand like she was drowning. She was, until you grabbed her hand. She would have, if you hadn't seen that plume. At least you were that good.

_Help me, you tear down my reason  
Help me, it's your sex I can smell  
Help me, you make me perfect,  
Help me become somebody else_

Her perfume. Her carefully arranged hair. Her makeup. Her party and date night dresses when she went out in public without you. Her professional suits. Those ugly blue jumpsuits. Her fresh-showered un-made-up face and those dangerous curves hidden in sweatpants. It was the last way that was the closest to how you really wanted her—naked, completely open to you, telling you everything, hearing everything you still couldn't say, but could show her if you could just get your hands on her. You might never be able to confess it out loud—there just weren't words for some of the things you'd seen and done—but if she just kept taking you in, kept letting you try, well, the need to confess, the conviction of how far from good you actually were—you might get better. You might feel like someday you could be good—and good enough for her.

_Through every forest, above the trees  
Within my stomach, scraped off my knees  
I drink the honey inside your hive  
You are the reason I stay alive_

Every first time you saw her each day, it was all you could do to stop yourself from backing her up against the wall, tearing her pants off or pushing her skirt up, and burying your face between her legs, filling your mouth with her until every whiff of metal and gunpowder, each taste of spattered blood from a slit throat on your face, the white perfect flesh of her thighs as you spread her and held her in place while you sucked and licked at her so much better than a trigger or bones yielding to just the right amount of pressure under your hands. The taste and sound and feel of her would feed you like nothing else had, and all the times your knees hurt from praying on the psalter at Mass would mean nothing if you could just kneel in front of her and make her moan your name. You could stay there kneeling forever—just as long as she'd let you worship her with your mouth until she screamed and fell, let you catch her.

She didn't need you to catch her, didn't need you for anything, unlike the other innocents who you could still help even as not-good as you were. Anything that you knew about her was because she'd let you ask, then answered you. Any help you'd ever been was because she'd let you help her.

You weren't sleeping with his daughter. You weren't gay—anything but. And yes, she was beautiful. Like sunlight, or a rainbow, or everything and anything else that was good. But you weren't a good man, no matter how much you wanted her. If she kept letting you work with her, though, then one day, you might just be good, or closer to good.

You put the song on repeat. You ran harder. You weren't a good man. But she helped you get closer.


	7. Scar Tissue

_**This is a long "making love" fic, but please be warned that it's got a fair share of angst intermingled with the smut. There are also references to past physical and sexual violence. Spoilers Through S4's Con Man in the Meth Lab.**_

_**I was re-watching the scene in Lethal Weapon (3?) when Mel Gibson and Renee Russo are showing each other their scars, and re-reading my own Magpie's Nest ch. 9 "Exploitation of Weaknesses," both humorous takes on how to discuss one's past injuries. I thought the situation below was a more angsty, romantic, and realistic take on how that conversation might go.

* * *

  
**_

**Scar Tissue**

I'm no good at psychology—I admit I have a mental block almost, though I'd never say so aloud. And most people's motivations were beyond me. That was Booth's job. But when it came to my partner, well, that was different. I knew him better than I knew most people, which I'll admit, isn't much. I knew, for example, that he was physically interested in me, though he tried to be unobtrusive. He's a fully functioning alpha male, and I'm not unattractive-- but there's nothing personal about it, much as I might wish there to be. I'd always found him to be well-formed and attractive, and I missed him in a way I hadn't missed anyone since my parents left when he was "dead." I'd gradually come to accept, though I would never say so aloud, that I was "in love" with him, whatever that meant. But aside from normal male hormonal reactions, the type he would manifest around any female he worked closely with, Booth was clearly uninterested in me, polite excuse of his "line" or not. Issues of interest aside, I was also sure it was clear to him what was apparent to me—I'm damaged goods, a terrible partner when it came to anything outside work. I wouldn't get involved with me either-- too many old scars to contend with.

It was annoying when he would get so protective when I dated other men, even though I never considered any of them anything but a way to fill up an evening with hopefully pleasant company-- but he has my best interests at heart, and I knew in my heart it didn't make sense to date men who were looking for more than what I could offer, no matter how hard I tried. And none of them matched up to Booth in any regard. Surrogate relationship it was, I'd long since decided. Even if we were just coffee.

But all that aside, I could tell something was wrong with him. We hadn't had a case in a week, but as we usually did, we talked on the phone almost every day anyway, even if it was not much more than "Did you eat today?" and "Yes, Booth, I did." He'd sounded distracted and sad, and was far less talkative than the last time I spoke with him-- he only sounded worse just an hour ago. I didn't like to pry into his private life, but he just didn't sound like himself.

I decided to do something I rarely did—I called for some takeout, and left work a bit early. I wasn't quite comfortable taking a page from his chapter? book? one or the other, so I called him after picking up the Thai food I'd ordered.

He picked up with his usual "Booth," still sounding distracted.

"It's Temperance," I said. It was strange to have to identify myself; he usually checked the caller ID and answered with a "Hey, Bones, what's up?"

"Oh… hi. Something wrong?" he asked, sounding concerned to hear from me twice in one day.

"Well, I've got some Thai food and beer and wondered if you wanted to share it with me."

He paused. I wondered if he was surprised, or getting ready to say no. "Uh, yeah. That sounds fine." He sounded less than excited by the prospect, though he usually teased me the few times I'd done this before, saying "Aw, Bones, you missed me?"

I felt like I was imposing all of a sudden. "You know what, Booth, don't worry about it. It sounds like you're busy, I don't want to bother you."

"No… no, it's good, really Bones. Just a little distracted. I'd love it if you came over." Well, that sounded sincere, but now I felt insecure about it. I was on unsteady ground-- this was not my province at all.

"If you're sure…" I said, then kicked myself for saying it. I didn't want him feeling guilted into letting my come over.

"Bones. Get your butt over here," he said, sounding more like himself. "And you better have Mee Krab."

"Of course," I said, feeling relieved. "Be there in ten."

* * *

He answered the door with a smile, but he did look tired and sad, and something else deeper. I was relieved that I seemed to guess right that something was bothering him, and hoped I would find the right thing to say, or at least keep him company until he felt better.

He took the beers from me as I entered, and followed me over to his counter where I piled the takeout containers and we helped ourselves to the food. For once he wasn't the one holding up most of the conversation, and I found myself looking for things to talk about—I resorted to telling him about a class at the Museum I'd helped my father with, as well as my perplexity at some of the children's vernacular language.

"I don't understand why something good is the bomb, when you would think that an explosive device would have only negative connotations, but Hodgins assures me that's the accurate term," I mused, then smiled when he laughed aloud at my confusion. He was always amused by my unfamiliarity with popular culture expressions—it didn't seem to affect his overall opinion of my overall abilities, and didn't interfere with our working relationship, even though it sometimes hurt my feelings-- but I'd never tell him that. He would just get more overprotective, and that's just what a don't need. A kind, sensitive man I'm not sleeping with.

"Well," he said, taking a spring roll, "there are lots of seemingly negative terms used to express something that's good—ill, sick, bad, the bomb." He smiled at me then took a bite. I tried to keep the conversation going, the silence between us for once not as comfortable as it could be. I asked after Parker, and that yielded a good fifteen minutes of Booth's proud recollection of the past week's academic and athletic achievements-- though it seemed to me that Rebecca had him a bit overscheduled. But Booth's smile was deep and genuine, so I refrained from offering my opinion that his son's mother was contributing to the anxiety children with overachieving parents can suffer.

The silence after was more natural, and we fought over the last spring roll-- I pretended to look away so he could have it without us fighting too long. I've finally learned about letting someone win on the basis of something other than sheer merit. Need has a place.

I brought us each a second beer, and tried to amuse him with a tale of how Hodgins got foam all over the floor as the result of an experiment involving a fire extinguisher, some club soda, and a large box of baking soda, but he was drifting off again, his thoughts on something that drew the smile from his mouth and the warmth from his eyes.

"Are you alright?" I finally asked. A guilty, sad look flickered over his face as he looked at me. "You seem upset about something."

He seemed startled that I would ask, perhaps even startled that I could tell he was upset. I don't ask, usually. I wouldn't tell me either, I'm no one to confide in, I'm no good at offering comfort. But Booth... well, I don't get the feeling he talks to most people about most things. If he wasn't going to answer, he wouldn't. But if he wanted to talk, I could at least let him know I'd try to listen. He had that measuring look he gets when he's deciding to tell me something serious-- something he thinks will negatively affect my opinion of him. It's a different look from when he's going to tell me something he thinks I need to hear-- that look has more sympathy. He could stand to give himself more.

I just waited, looking at him as calmly as possible. He thinks he's going to shock me some day, and that I'll think badly of him, but that's impossible. Whatever he thinks, I've seen worse, or been through some version of it myself.

He seemed to decide, then, and looked off to the side as he said "One of my buddies, from Iraq, he was with me ... when we were... taken... he shot himself a few days ago. His funeral's tomorrow at Arlington."

"I'm so sorry," I said, meaning it. I'm bad at condolences-- but we were used to going to funerals together, though usually for our victims. Not friends. But I could offer-- "Would you like me to go with you, for company?"

He didn't hesitate much more than two or three seconds before saying, "Yeah, Thanks."

"Sure," I responded. He was quiet a few moments longer, and didn't seem like he would elaborate, so I patted his arm, then asked "more beer?"

"Mmm," he said, gathering plates as he thought. "Maybe not."

I followed him with the empty bottles and saw it was later than I'd thought. "You're right. I'd better go. Shall I meet you somewhere?"

He shook his head as I went to the door. "No-- I'll come by at eight."

I smiled tentatively-- encouragingly, too, I hoped. "I'll see you then. Goodnight, Booth."

"'Night, Bones, thanks..." he said, looking as if he might say more, then stopped himself. "See you tomorrow."

I gave him one last wave goodnight before I drove off.

* * *

The funeral was sparsely attended. It looked like the friend's parents were there, then four men who seemed slightly younger than Booth, and one older man in the uniform of a Lieutenant Colonel who looked vaguely familiar. The colonel spoke a few short words about honor in battle and sacrifice "under the most trying of circumstances." I didn't miss the fact that the other four men all looked over at Booth when the colonel said this. Neither parent spoke-- they just looked worn-out and heartbroken.

Booth exchanged some words with the parents, and then with the other four men. There were some business cards exchanged and numbers recorded while I waited off to the side. The colonel, waiting off to the side, pulled Booth off after he was done speaking to the other four. They stood for almost ten minutes, wearing the same posture. Hands in their pockets, shoulders slumped forward and hunched in, looking tired. I wondered who got it from whom-- it was too much the same pose for one not to have learned it from the other. The two must go back a ways. Eventually, they walked over toward me, and I recognized the other man as he drew closer.

Booth made introductions, then said "Colonel Evans was the captain back then."

I nodded, saying "It's a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for not meeting you at Booth's funeral-- you headed the honor guard, isn't that so?"

The man looked somewhat startled, but Booth only chuckled. "Yeah, Bones notices everything, even when she's also busy clocking me."

The colonel smiled more genuinely then. "I haven't seen Seel knocked on his ass like that in years, and last time it took three guys and a kick in the nuts." Booth winced at some memory, either my punching him, or the nuts episode-- maybe both.

I smiled back. "Well, let's just say I was surprised to see Booth and leave it at that."

They made some more small talk, promised to meet later that week, and said their goodbyes. As we walked through the endless rows of white headstones, Booth's friend now just one more of too many, he asked "You going straight back to the lab?"

I didn't look at him as I answered, my hands in my own pockets now. "I... took the day off," I said, wondering if I was overstepping myself. "In case you wanted the company."

He looked sidewise at me before saying "That would be nice." That muscle at his jaw that tics when he's tense stopped pulsing so quickly, and I was relieved that I'd offered.

He lapsed into silence as we got back in the car and he started it. He always needs to be the one driving, so for once I kept silent about our destination, and let him be quiet until he decided to talk or decided where he wanted to go. We ended up back at his house, at which point he blinked after parking the car.

"Must be on autopilot," he offered, tiredly.

"It's fine," I replied. "I could use the bathroom and more coffee in any event."

He shot me a half-grin. "Can't be accused of holding up the country's top forensic anthropologist when she's gotta go."

"A woman's gotta do what a woman's gotta do," I said deadpan, and he shot me another look, even more surprised. I didn't even look at him as I got out of the car, saying, "What? Even I know some movie quotes."

He chuckled and let us in, taking my coat and bag with his usual chivalrous manners. "I'll start some coffee."

At least we were coffee.

* * *

When I came out the coffee was gurgling into the pot and he was seated on his sofa, flipping through what looked like a small olive green three ring binder. I fixed us our coffees, then set his down next to him before coming around to the other side and seating myself. I took a few sips of the truly execrable coffee-- thank goodness he didn't notice the face I made. Honestly, for someone who drinks so much of it, you'd think he'd have learned how to make it by now. I suppose that's why he's always buying it when we're out.

He took a long mindless slurp from his mug, then set it aside as he flipped one-handed through the binder's contents-- half scrapbook, half album, plain plastic sleeves with a jumble of photos and tickets and ID tags and other slips of paper and beer caps and other mementoes that meant nothing to me but each held a world of memory for him. Toward the end, he stopped, regarding a photo that took up most of a sleeve. I'd never seen the binder before-- we all tend to wrap up bad memories and put them someplace where we don't have to look at them most of the time.

"This was us," he said, the picture depicting a half-dozen young men, including Booth and the man who just died. The other four were the younger men who attended the funeral-- flanked on each side by Booth and his friend, both wearing sergeants' stripes on their desert fatigues. The others wore specialist and lower-ranked insignia, and Booth hadn't yet achieved the master sergeants' stripes his uniform jacket bore at his funeral. Though he was years younger, he was still Booth-- his smile had that look that I was learning was a false type of easiness. It looked real to people who didn't know him, but he was waiting for something, poised to turn around, defend, attack-- something. Not still. Not just in the moment, merely enjoying the company of his friends. He was then, as he does now, watching out for something.

"When was this taken?" I asked, leaning my knee against his.

"Two weeks before..." he said, trailing off before gritting his jaw, not meeting my eye. Like he never does when he's about to tell me something. I waited.

"We were doing recon... trying to find a few Republican Guard holdouts up in the hills, then taking out targets as necessary. We'd already checked in and Kev and I were off planning the next day's assignments when they came out of nowhere." He shook his head at some imagined stupidity.

"They didn't bother with the others... they knew only the two of us would know everything, it's SOP to keep the specs only on a need-to-know."

"There's less to tell if you don't know anything," I said quietly, laying my hand on his arm "and incomplete information's almost worse than none at all." He shot me a look, surprised again, but nodded before starting again.

"He... didn't say anything. Me neither... but it took almost a week for them to find us and get us and he was as messed up as I was. Neither of us was in any shape to go back right away, so they shipped us back to Reed stateside and then it ended, not long after."

His voice was tight, his jaw clenched, his eyes looking anywhere but me. There was a world of pain and anger and fear in what he left unsaid, but I wasn't going to ask him to say it. I just squeezed his arm again.

"We both got our honorable medical discharges and our reserve assignments, got an apartment up in Jersey where he was from, and took our service bonuses up to Atlantic City the first weekend we had them. We both got lucky... a real rush after feeling like shit for so long."

He stopped and took a slurp from his coffee, staring off into space for a bit before speaking again. "Well, the rest's a long story except I finally came to my senses and he didn't. Somehow I'd held on to my job, and he didn't. I asked him to stop and he didn't, asked him to stop asking me to go with me and he didn't. Then he stole a paycheck of mine, took it and blew it and we barely made rent. I put in for a transfer from Newark to Manhattan, packed up my stuff one weekend when he was off gambling again, and moved out. I crashed at a friend's for a month until I could float the security deposit on a shitty cockroach-ridden apartment-- but at least it was _mine_ and no one kept pushing me to get drunk or play cards or..."

It was more than he'd ever told me about himself ever, and for each word there were a hundred more left unsaid.

"I didn't want to forget... I just wanted to concentrate on something else as much as I could. He couldn't get that far.... It was good, really, at first, because ..."

"Unless you've been through it, you can't understand," I said quietly.

"Yeah. But... you've got to push through it, at least try to, you know?" He shook his head. "He was too busy still thinking about it to try and think about anything else."

I squeezed his arm again, and he looked down at my hand as if he was surprised it was there. "You tried to help him, Booth, I don't doubt that. But you can't make someone listen, no matter how hard you try, even when you both care for each other." He flicked me another uncertain glance, an emotion I knew for him meant guilt still in his face. "Booth-- you can't save everyone, no matter how much they deserve it. And it wouldn't have done either one of you any good if you went down trying to save him from drowning. Everyone has their own personal shark-infested waters."

His expression as he finally looked at me was stark, a response to my oblique acknowledgement that there were still probably things that would break him-- he's only human, even if he doesn't allow himself to be. He looked at me a long moment as I tried to look calmly back, then shook his head.

"I don't give you enough credit, hunh?"

I tried to make light. "Don't get used to it. I'm still mostly clueless."

He snorted, then sat forward to take a sip of his coffee. Making a face, he said "coffee's cold," then got up and returned with the pot. "Warm up?"

"Please," I said, then took a sip. My grimace must have been pained, because he said "Come on, Bones, it's not that bad."

I sipped again. "Actually, it is." I got up and went to the coffee pot, then saw why.

"Seeley Michael Booth! You used a paper towel instead of a filter!" I called, and he looked at me over the couch.

"I always use paper towels," he said. "Filters are too expensive. And what's with the full name thing, there, Bones? You sound like my Mom."

"Well, I'm sure your Mom would be horrified to find you were using paper towels, too." I shook my head. The man makes intuitive leaps like no one I know, but makes coffee with paper towels. Unbelievable.

"Come here. I'm going to teach you how to make a proper pot of coffee." I mean, if we're just going to be coffee, it should be good coffee.

He leant, looking amused, against the counter, as I emptied the grounds into the trash, then went to my purse.

"You carry filters around in your bag?" he asked, incredulously.

"Soil and water samples," I said.

When I began to take stock, it was worse than I thought. The filter basket hadn't been washed in ages-- there was caked coffee oil all over the basket, and when I looked in the water well, well, there was enough lime to make Parker a week's worth of sidewalk chalk.

"Do you have vinegar?" I asked.

"Why?"

"You have calcium and lime deposits from your water in the resevoir, and the filter basket is full of old coffee ground deposits. Running a pot full of water with some vinegar in it will clean everything else."

"I rinse the basket," he said defensively, handing me the vinegar, then crossing his arms.

I filled up the pot, added three caps of vinegar and the water to the well after washing the basket and pot, and set to work, instructing as I went along. "Coffee oils are extremely volatile. They need a thin paper filter so they can infuse the liquid, and not stay in the grounds... which is why a paper towel is too thick. And as the oils accumulate on the filter basket, they become bitter and sour. See this brown guk?! Coffee oils! No wonder your coffee's so bad!" I exclaimed.

Then I saw it as I looked over his shoulder. "Tell me you didn't use those papertowels over there with the puppies and beachballs printed on them to filter the coffee."

He looked over his shoulder, and said "What? Parker wanted them."

I rolled my eyes. "It's not the print, it's the fact that they're printed at all! Good lord, Booth. If we don't both die of ink ingestion, we'll be lucky."

He crossed his arms again. "I've been drinking it all week, you'll live, Bones."

Just then the water finished guttering through the reservoir, and I handed him the pot and the basket. "Here, dump this and wash it again and fill it with water?" I checked the reservoir and the lime deposits had dissolved, thank heaven, and when I turned back he had an amused look on his face. Well, at least it replaced the sad, guilty one he'd been wearing. He handed me the pot, and I refilled the reservoir. "Okay. Coffee and your measuring scoop, please..."

He rummaged in the freezer, well, at least he knows that trick, and handed me the can. "I don't use a scoop. I just dump in enough to fill the basket."

I was so exasperated I couldn't even yell at him. "No wonder it's so bitter. Have you got a tablespoon? No, never mind. I'll look for it." He lounged against his counter, resting on one elbow, his dress shirt pulled taut against his entirely well-too-formed abdomen as I pulled out his drawers to rummage through them and tried to avoid surreptitious glances as his narrow waistline and hips.

I made the mistake once of grumbling aloud that he looked as good in a suit as casual clothes, unlike the rest of normal humans, to which Angela said "Forget the suit sweetie, and think of the birthday suit." I'd been trying unsuccessfully ever since I confronted him in his bathroom.

Filter in the basket, I showed him the right number of scoops for the amount water in the reservoir. His only response was "that's not enough. It'll be weak."

I literally threw up my hands. "Have I ever served you bad coffee?" Sheepish, he shook his head. "Then just trust me, okay?" After turning the machine on again, I looked at the coffee can.

"Generic."

He snorted. "Fancy pants beans that cost seven dollars a pound? No thanks."

I glared. "I use a mexican roast that comes in a yellow and red can in the supermarket aisle, that's only a dollar more than this. It's more than sufficient to make a good cup of coffee. Either that or fair trade, but that's worth the expense because it goes mostly to the growers. It's criminal, the way the cooperatives are robbed by the buyers, they often get what amounts to pennies per pound, and did you know that..."

Booth barked a laugh. "Ah, Bones, don't ever change."

I stifled a retort. At least he was laughing.

The coffee guttered into the pot, and I poured out two mugs, fixing the coffee again. He made a big show of bracing himself for a terrible taste, then took a long swallow.

"Fussy," he said with a smile.

"Toxin free and not muddy," I retorted, then poked him in the abdomen several times, jokingly. He looked down, surprised that I would initiate contact. I shouldn't have. I don't. If you don't touch, you don't need to keep touching.

"Sorry," I mumbled, embarrassed at being so forward, and took my mug to sit back down on the sofa. He was looking at me strangely still when I looked back at him over my shoulder. Damnit. I was too forward. He's uncomfortable whenever I initiate anything-- sex talk, physical contact, whatever. Embarrassed, I stood again to inspect something that caught my eye.

"Is this a new one of Parker?" I asked, standing before it.

"Yeah, I put it out last night after you left," he said, sounding startled again. "School pictures, and still with that mop of curls. Becs won't let me cut it, she says it's too cute."

"Well, it is," I said, offering a placatory smile. I don't need to have children of my own to appreciate that Parker is a sweet, intelligent, curious boy who inherited his father's symmetrical features and an attractive blend of both parents' coloring. He was a good looking boy now-- he would be even more handsome as he got older.

Instead of smiling at the complient to his boy, however, he repeated his statement from earlier. "I don't give you nearly enough credit, Bones." He looked serious all over again.

"What? Noticing the picture? Please, I picked that up from you." I thought he'd smile at the compliment, but he became even more serious.

"No, really," he said, his eyes dark as he came and stood next to me, and looking at his son's picture rather than me. "I mean, I ask you all kinds of stuff, poke at you until you tell me, and I never tell you anything."

"It's okay, Booth," I said, trying to be reassuring. "You're a private person. I get that."

He chuffed a bitter laugh. "Right. Because you're not."

"I trust you, Booth. If I didn't think that I could tell you, I wouldn't tell you." His expression somehow became even more bleak. I'd said something wrong, damnit. I can't do anything right. There was no graceful way to make an exit, so I fell back on bluntness. At least there, I wouldn't fall short of expectations.

"Look, I'm not helping. I'm just making you more upset, I should go." I turned, but he grabbed my wrist, holding it firmly.

"No, you're not... I'm just... stay. Please?" He never said please-- never asked me for anything, much.

"Okay," I said, quietly. He was still looking gravely at me, his hand still on my wrist, the two of us facing each other. I could smell his cologne, feel the warmth his body as he stood closely to me. Booth has a nonexistent definition of personal space.

"I make people talk for a living, and I never say a damned word myself," he said bitterly, looking off to the side. He never looks me in the eye when he's angry at himself, either. "Not very fair."

"You have a right to keep things to yourself, Booth," I repeated. "It's not like I've told you everything that's ever happened to me."

He looked at me then, gaze angry as he responded. "Yeah, but you always give me an answer if I ask you something, and you never ask me anything, ever."

He was upset that I didn't ask him things? I didn't understand-- I must be really obtuse to have misread him that much. I honestly thought he wanted to be left alone.

"I... I'm sorry, I thought you didn't... I didn't want to... it's your story to tell, I figured if you wanted to say something, you would, but..." I trailed off lamely. Oh, lord. I was just putting my foot in it right, left, and center. "I just wanted to respect your privacy. I'm sorry."

His hand tightened on my arm, as if he thought I was going to try to leave again. I was thinking of it, of course-- I'm so bad at this kind of thing that whatever he might have just said I not only fail to help, I make it even worse.

"Don't apologize," he said. "You're right. I probably would tell you to mind your own business, or pawn you off with some excuse. I don't like answering questions."

"Understandable," I said, then shut up again.

He looked at me again, pain and shame now in his eyes. "But I should... and I shouldn't put people off of it... it's not fair to make you tell me so much stuff and then not give anything back."

I was more than a little surprised-- I mean, here I am, convinced I'm a lousy friend, which I am, now he's accusing himself of not being fair? The man was insane. "It's not about _quid pro quo_, Booth. I trust you. I'm not keeping count. And the '_not_ _giving anything back_' is ridiculous. You do a lot of things for me, more than I do for you, anyway. I'm just not good at being a friend."

"Are you kidding?" he said, looking at me like I had three heads. Two heads? I'm not sure of the phrase. "Bones, work stuff aside and that's a big aside because without you and your squints I'd still be busting my ass on bullshit little cases, and the killing Lappin and Nunan things aside too, because, you know, lousy friends always kill for people they don't even like, well... you put up with so much shit from me like when I boss you around or make fun of you about stuff that I sometimes wonder when you're going to clock me again."

That look of embarrassment grew more heated the longer he spoke, and I hated seeing him so upset about something that just wasn't important, given the loss of his friend. "I'm not going to clock you for anything, Booth," I tried. "You're a good friend, and if you felt like I could be trusted with something, then you'd tell me about it."

He inhaled like I'd slapped him, looking absolutely stricken. "You think I don't tell you stuff because I don't trust you? Jesus, Temperance. That's so far from the truth that it's sick."

Now I'd insulted him on top of everything else, and he was still holding onto my wrist and running his thumb up and down the inside in such distress that it almost hurt.

"Look, Booth, no," I tried, almost ready to cry at how much of a mess I'd made of things. "I'm just saying that you shouldn't ever feel like you have to tell me anything. I'm not tactful or even discreet though I try, and I understand why you wouldn't want to confide in me. I mean, look, I can't even do this right, I just need to learn to keep my mouth shut. I'm sorry, really. I just... I wouldn't ever think less of you whatever it was, but I'm not very reliable, I'm aware of that. I really should go and stop bothering you." I pulled away a bit, hoping he'd let go of my wrist.

He just looked at me inscrutably, and I wondered if he was going to let go or continue to ask questions I couldn't properly answer. Especially when he was standing on top of me, like he was now.

"Bones," he said, "I trust you more than I trust myself, you're nuts if you think otherwise. But I don't tell anyone anything, it's not just you. It's not a matter of trust... it's just..."

He paused, swallowing, and looking ashamed and afraid and angry all over again. "If I was going to tell anyone, it would be you, but.. it _hurts_..." He almost choked on that last word.

I knew. I did. And suddenly I knew what to say, how to tell him he didn't have to tell me what I already knew, but he thought I didn't. The things he thought would affect my opinion of him-- they were nothing to be ashamed of. So I looked him straight in the eye, and told him something I'd never admitted out loud to anyone.

"You get used to not saying anything early on because if you do, it will make things worse if they find out about it, and because no one will believe you as long as you're little-- you tried it once or twice and they didn't-- they said you were lying, and then it was worse when they found out you'd tattled on them. And then when you're older, you don't say anything because as soon as you start you won't be able to stop, and then they'll just kill everyone as soon as you're finished telling them everything that you know. So you keep quiet, and hope it buys enough time. And... after, you don't talk about it because everyone thinks you're brave, and a hero, and strong because you made it out of there-- but it's not true, not really. You were terrified the whole time, and you can't let them know that you're actually weak."

He looked stunned. "You know..."

I nodded solemnly. "You don't have to tell me anything, Booth. I understand, I can see some of it, even."

"See?"

Better to show and tell, I decided, so he wouldn't mistake me.

"This bump, here?" I said, running my index finger over the bridge of his nose. "Barely discernible, which means it occurred prior to puberty. A tree? A sharp corner on a bike? Running too fast in the house? Some other excuse?"

His mouth twisted bitterly. "Tree."

Next, the right side of his jaw, where he clenched it. "Multiple dislocations over multiple years, with recurrent maxillofacial and mandible pain resulting in teeth clenching." I ran my finger along the mandible then, pressing lightly as I dragged my finger along. "Multiple fractures, between five and twenty years old."

His eyes were dark and his face still as he looked back at me. "What else?" he asked then.

One cheekbone under my thumb-- "peri-adolescent fracture," then frowned as I pressed a bit more. "No. Two within a short time of each other."

"Two and a half weeks," he supplied, teeth gritted again.

I nodded, looked at his face, then turned my attention to the other parts of him visible. His hand, still on my wrist. I brought my arm up, then turned it so the back of his hand was face up.

"Boxer's fractures," I said, pointing to his slightly more prominent index, middle, and ring finger knuckles at the top of his hand. I placed his hand atop mine, palm to palm, fingers outstretched, then slid the other hand's fingers, lightly touching, over his as I felt for bone callous.

"Multiple fractures, each finger," I said, "some from pre-adolescence, some from the last few years, most concentrated fifteen to eighteen years ago." I then smoothed my fingers over the bumps at the base of the nailbeds on the last two fingers of his right hand. "Two torn fingernails, same time period."

When I looked back at him, his expression had shifted to something approaching relief. I let go of his hand, slightly embarrassed at being so forward, then said softly but firmly, "There are a variety of injuries elsewhere, from a variety of traumas, but ... the overall structure is intact and capable of withstanding serious future trauma without systemic collapse."

"You're sure?" he asked, his voice husky.

I nodded solemnly this time. "Field research, academic training and research, and personal experience all support that conclusion, plus what I will admit is can only be described as gut instinct."

"Personal experience?" he said, eyes immediately worried. Damnit, I shouldn't have said that.

I felt my mouth stretch into a grimace as I lied to him-- "First hand evidence processing, let's say. My undergraduate and graduate specialty was on genocide and mass grave recoveries." He didn't need to know about the rest. Not now. I'd tell him someday.

I realized then that I still had his hand on top of mine, and looked down, then swallowed. Much too forward. I patted his hand with my other one, then let it drop and smoothed my hand though my hair. I can never get those few curls to stay put. But as I was bringing my hand down, his eyes watching me flickered, and he reached out and pulled my hand forward, holding it palm up.

Blunt, unpainted fingernails kept short-- they interfere with fingertip examination in the field when there are no microscopes to be had, much less a lab. A few enlarged knuckles, from breaks of my own from age sixteen onward. And what caught his attention, and what he was staring at, now.

I'd almost forgotten what a habit it was to always keep my palms facing down, or inside exam gloves. And as much time as we'd spent together, as much tactile contact as he initiated, I'd never once held hands with him.

His thumb brushed over the large, thick, white circular scar in the least fleshy part of the palm-- the part over the bone, where it hurts most. He pressed it lightly, feeling how it went all the way down to the metacarpals, then reached over and pulled up my other hand, finding its match as well as the rest. He pressed on the similar scars on the pads of my fourth and fifth fingers, the ones I don't use to touch anything with. No use, if there's no real sensation.

He looked at them critically, then without further preamble, dropped one of my hands to tug his shirt out of his pants to expose a mark of similar size, less white than mine, just at his ilia. Looking up at me, his eyes bleak, he said "Older than ten years." It wasn't a question.

"Sixteen," I answered, really looking at the scar in my palm for the first time in a while, and remembering why they were there-- for asking permission to go to the junior prom. He didn't need to know that. But I hardly notice them any more-- unless there's a nightmare, and then they burn for a bit after I first wake up again.

"You get used to not saying anything," I repeated as I looked back at him, my own smile now the twisted and bitter one.

He said nothing, just looked at me long moments-- the same look he'd given me before, before deciding all over again that his line was in place for a reason. I waited, sure he'd do so again. Instead, though, his hand closed over mine, and he pulled me flush against him, his mouth seeking out mine as his hand came to my nape, pressing my lips to his. I was surprised that he'd changed his mind, and it took me a moment before I responded. He started to draw back, as if he'd done something wrong, but I got my breath back and grabbed him to pull his mouth back over mine.

He kissed me like he was drowning-- I was, too. His probing tongue in my mouth, his lips sealed to mine, the heat of him pressed against me, his spicy scent and cologne were all making me dizzy. He broke the kiss reluctantly, still holding on to my nape, and looked at me again with new eyes. He'd thought I'd think less once I finally knew, but now he knew that I'd known some of it for a while and could care less. He kissed me again until we were both gasping for air. Only then did my reason come back.

Touching his face, I said "I'm no good at this, Booth. You don't want to..."

He shut me up with another kiss, then mumbled over my lips "You're good at _me_, I don't care about anything else." He crushed me to him, kissing me until my knees literally sagged as I tasted him-- his tongue, his lips, the inside of his cheeks, the underside of those white even teeth that so often charm smiled at me-- he kissed me even more deeply as his arms snugged me more tightly to him.

Each kiss soon became interspersed with stops to divest the other of clothing, his eyes darkening as my blouse and jacket fell by the wayside and my hands making their appreciative way of the sculpted expanse of his chest and back. My heels went flying, my skirt puddling around my feet and then kicked away as he growled at the sight of my stockings and underwear. I managed his belt and pants fly in the doorway to his room, stroking him through his pants before pushing them and the rest of his clothes down and away.

He pulled me flush with him, our torsos burning together as he reached around me to unclasp my bra. "Show me what else you know," he rasped in my ear, then kissed his way down my stomach until he half knelt, tugging and tossing my underwear and stockings away.

As he stood, I pushed him over to sit at the edge of his bed, then climbed up behind him.

He was like a perfect sculpture-- weathered by time and the blows of vandals and passers-by, dented with scars, bumps and pockmarks. The marks didn't change the underlying perfection of the artwork.

"Cane," I said, my voice thickened as I traced the thin white lines over his shoulders, his skin shuddering under my touch.

"Rotator cuff," I continued, placing a kiss there, then ran my hands up the sides of his ribs as I pressed myself against him. "Multiple broken ribs, twenty five years and less," I announced, then backed up to look again as I left one hand on his shoulder. I placed my hand over the base of his spine, just over his hips, letting the heat of my palm seep into the skin. "Bulging discs, L3 through L5, most likely from a combination of static pressure and torsion." Making my way back up, I ran my palms up his arms, then said "bilateral dislocated shoulders."

He tugged at the hand I'd left on his shoulder, and I turned to straddle his lap, sitting back toward his knees so I could kiss him. That done, I continued.

"Collarbone, three years ago."

"More broken ribs, one to eighteen years old."

"Knife slash."

"Cigar burn."

"Gut stab."

Each one was paired with a caress or a kiss, and then I sat back and looked at him again. It wasn't amazement, that look in his eye. It was hunger, and relief at being understood without having to explain. I was glad-- I'd never had to explain myself to him, not really. The verbal information just confirmed what he already knew. If he could feel the same way, then I could be a real partner to him.

"Gunshot," I said raspily, circling the months-old scar with my fingers then placing a featherlight kiss there. He pulled me forward, pressing his lips against the hollow of my throat, then made his way over each collarbone as I stroked my fingertips over the planes of his back. As he continued to kiss his way over my breasts, I ran my hands down each arm and found each humerus, radius or ulnae with its telltale ridge or displacement. He was nuzzling the valley of my breasts, and the heat in my center was pooling steadily, but I wanted to finish my inventory. I pushed him back slightly, then stood up, only to back away and kneel, pushing his legs apart until I found what I was looking for.

"Heated metal rod," I said, brushing my fingers over the long puckered scar on the inside of his thigh, then looked up at him as I said simply "multiple fractures," as I brushed my index finger, once, over the top of each foot. I ran my hands up the inside of his legs, adding "fibula" and "ruptured ACL" as I made my way up, not looking back at his face as I took hold of him with both hands. He hissed as I let him rest in my palm while I traced the line of him with my index finger, testing the length and heat of him, then gasped as I braced one hand on his thigh and took him into my mouth, holding him steady via my hand at the base of his shaft.

I stroked my tongue and cheeks over him, enjoying the smell and heat of him as he leant away from me, bracing himself on his arms as I continued to move my mouth over him. He groaned when I increased the level of suction, then added the press of my lips over his shaft to increase the pressure. I sped and then slowed my mouth on him, and his breathing quickly became ragged, his hips jerking a little. I shifted my grip on the base of his shaft so I could press my thumb over his perineum, then once again sped the pressure and suction on him. I pulled back and away, stroking the underside of his length with my tongue, then firmly pressed the tip of my tongue over the head of his shaft before sucking hard at him and sliding the length of him into my mouth quickly. I built a fast hard rhythm, then slowed as I could feel him tensing, pressing down again with my thumb as I backed him away from his release so I could prolong the sensation for him. His breathing was harsh as I continued to suck at him, occasional gasps and groans escaping him as I changed the rhythm or pressure. The third time I backed him away from a release, he groaned and threaded his hands through my hair.

"You're killing me," he groaned, pulling me up as he stood, his erection twitching strongly against my stomach and thigh as he pulled me into another breathstealing kiss. His hands cupped the curves of my buttocks, his fingers brushing lightly upward as I continued to kiss him. I stiffened even as he did, his fingertips finding then stilling over the criss-crossing lines at the flare of my back over my buttocks, the ones similar to the ones over his shoulders. He broke the kiss, eyes shocked, then turned me in his arms so he could look.

He embraced me fiercely, a whispered "Bones," his only initial reaction as his arms around my waist pressed my back into his warmth. Turning me again, he grasped both sides of my face, looking at me as his eyes glittered. I stood up on my tiptoes to press a soft kiss on his lips, letting him know I was fine. He turned us until he could push me to sitting, then sat beside me, silently urging me to roll onto my stomach so he could see. I blew out a long exhalation at the thought that he, unlike most others, knew what they meant -- the lines were fairly thin and white-- most people accepted the "glass laceration in a bike versus car accident" explanation, because they didn't want to think more about it. His fingers traced each individual line, then found the ones lining the upper backs of my thighs. He shifted, straddling me but not lowering down to sit, as he smoothed his palms over the curves of my rear, thumbs and palms kneading and warming, his palms smoothing over the curve of my lower back again-- where over my clothes his hand had so often rested. His hands made their way up my back, thumbs limning the line of my spine as his fingers and palms spanned my back. His thumbs passed over then paused and returned to the three crushed spinal processes at T9-12.

"Compression fractures," he said, roughly, then stroked the area with his thumbs. I hoped he wouldn't detect the accompanying ribs or the steel toed boot mechanism of injury. He didn't, and his fingers traced the rest of the way up my back until he bent forward, placing a long sucking kiss at the back of my neck. At his slight tug, I rolled onto my back, and gazed up at him.

His look was both tender and ferociously angry as he said "personal experience," so I just nodded. He shifted, lying alongside me. I snaked my arm around his neck to pull him in for a kiss, losing myself in his mouth as his hands made their way over the front of me. I didn't want to think, not yet, about what else he might discover without my telling him. His mouth shifted down from my lips as he brought his attentions, kissing and kneading and sucking over my breasts, my nipples, my stomach. His slow flicking tongue, the press of his fingers on the curve of each rib, the heat of him pressed against me soon overwhelmed me, and I was gasping as his mouth found me with each new kiss or sucking caress. One hand crept into one of my scarred ones, his thumb pressing slowly over that old scar in a motion so soothing that for the moment I could believe that the tissue might be healthy again. Maybe it could.

The pleasurable tension between my legs was almost unbearable, my body's reaction to his and the relief of finally being with him matched by the far more uncertain tension of the other unspoken things between us. An exhaled "aaah" escaped me when his tongue first flickered across the hooded nub at the crest of my mound. My tension only built as he flicked it again, then shifted to push my knees up and apart as he ran his hands up the insides of my legs-- then stilled for a long moment.

"Razor blade, deep scarring, thin, almost invisible," he said, his voice choked, then ran his thumb lightly over the finger's-length series of lines on one inside upper thigh. He paused, then traced their mirror on the other leg. The lines were nearly invisible now, but the scars went deep and were palpable to someone accustomed to scar tissue-- they were only numb, now, registering only pressure, though they were so painful afterward-- I'd acquired the habit of wearing skirts and stockings rather than tights or pantyhose then, when the slightest contact was unbearable. It took a while to start wearing pants again.

"Bones," he said quietly, when he found its match on the other leg, then pushed himself up on his forearms to look at me. I leant up on my elbows, regarding him in return, and wondering what question he'd ask. "Where?"

"Guatemala."

A dozen thoughts flitted over his face, including incredible shame, and I suddenly knew he was remembering that I'd just returned from Guatemala when he had me held at the airport before Cleo Eller's case-- he must be thinking it happened right then. "No," I said, clarifying, "before then-- graduate school."

"You went _back_?" He was astonished, and swallowing convulsively.

"There was more work to be done. And it was a long time ago." He regarded me a long moment, eyes shimmering, as I said "lots of things were a long time ago," the remark applying equally well to either of us.

I wondered if he'd stop, out of misguided concern for me, or out of his own mixed or outright negative reaction. I didn't talk about it. Most men handle it badly, even though you're the same person they've always known. But instead of pulling away, he shifted and turned to place a soft lingering kiss over each one. He laid more kisses there and into my core, his hand still in mine as his thumb never stopped its firm press over my palm.

He took long stroking tastes, firm and then light, then light flicks circling my aching clitoris before he sealed his mouth over me, sucking and licking as my hips bucked involuntarily toward him. He tasted each curve, fold or crease so slowly, as if he was memorizing me, all the while increasing the pressure as he sucked. I cried out, arching further when he first plunged his tongue inside me, his hand now gripping my wrist as my hips arched up and away from him. His other hand clamped at my hip as he continued to caress my walls with his tongue, and I soon lost track of the sounds I was making as his tongue in my heat and his hands on me took over my senses. I knew I was writhing against him, but I was beyond voluntary muscle control as his indescribable mouth pushed me past the point at which I expected to shatter. His questing fingers took turns with his mouth as he paused for air, his rasped "so delicious" hot on my thigh, then his "unbelievably gorgeous" as his fingers in me twisted again.

I was quivering with tension, long moaned "Booths" and short whimpers escaping me as he fully explored me. His fingers assuredly stroked and pushed at my clitoris, his tongue or fingers inside me unceasing as my calls for release became louder-- and then I exploded, a lightning bolt spearing me from my core. He lapped at me still as I shuddered, the intense orgasm still sending frissons of energy through me.

"Oh," was the only word I could form as he kissed each patch of scar tissue again, then kissed his way up the midline of my torso before returning to lie alongside, clasping me to him as he kissed me again. The arm he'd slid under my back held me tightly as I wrapped my own arms around his neck. I tried to return every bit of passion he poured into the kiss, each unspoken but acknowledged past hurt accepted for whatever damage was still left. That kiss said what I knew-- you worked around scar tissue as best as you could.

Parting for air, his forehead pressed against mine, his eyes sorrowful, he said "That's more than anyone should ever know first hand," his voice thick with emotion.

"Then that's two of us," I said, tracing the line of his jaw.

"Two of a kind," he said, looking deeply at me.

"That's right, I said, nodding, then pulled him in for a kiss again.

His body half covered mine as we exchanged long kisses, our hands roaming freely over the other, and he soon had me gasping and writhing again as one hand found and massaged my breasts as the other teasingly circled my clitoris. I bucked into his hand, calling his name, then cried out as his hand left me so he could enter me fully, his arms sliding under me to brace himself up on his forearms. I arched up to meet his thrust, my eyes flying open at the feel of his hard thickness utterly filling me.

My own cry of surprise was met by his gasped "so good" as our hips ground together. I reached up under his arms to clasp his back and his shoulders, pressing my chest to his as our hips parted and thrust toward one another again. We set a gradual rhythm, each groaning our pleasure as our hips met, the friction of his skin on mine making my nipples and clitoris throb ever more strongly, in time with my quickening, almost deafening pulse.

"So perfect," I groaned as he thrust into me more deeply, then began speeding the pace. I clung to him as I soon lost the rhythm, crying out with mounting pleasure and tension each time he filled me completely.

"Unbelievable," he ground out, his own breath panting and harsh as we strove with each other. I screamed with one particularly deep intense stroke, my head falling back as the feeling shot through me, then lost all control as he let me fall back into the bed, pulling my legs up from where I'd wrapped them around him to stroke into me almost frantically. My orgasm blinded and seized me, my long wailing call of release soon followed by his shouted "Bones!" as he jerked into me one last time, the pulsing hot wash of his explosing sending a small aftershock through me. He was trembling as he still braced himself over me, and I managed to open my eyes long enough to find him and pull him down for a kiss.

I panted into his mouth, then whimpered as a small pulse passed through him, his own groan joining my whimper.

"Oh," I said, falling back into the bed.

"Oh my God," he replied, then groaned as he withdrew to fall onto the bed beside me.

He pulled me to him, slinging a leg over mine and an arm crossing my waist and as he reached up to grab hold of my shoulder.

I turned to look at him, still panting and dazed from our joining.

"I know who you are," he said, then pressed a soft kiss on my lips.

"I know who you are," I replied, tracing his lips with my fingertips, then strained forward to return the kiss.

We did know who the other was, now-- scar tissue and all. But we'd both worked around ours on our own for years. I had a feeling those scars wouldn't pull or inhibit free movement so much anymore.


	8. Couldn't Do it Without You

_**This is a lengthy "Making Love Fic," Spoilers for Season Four's "The Con Man in the Meth Lab." The story was an outgrowth of my wondering how much Booth will allow himself to rely on Brennan, how much he's willing to tell her, and how much she's willing to do for him now that she knows him a bit better. I am ignoring the idea that Brennan is clueless about her feelings for Booth—I think she knows, but suppresses them. What would happen if Booth truly let Brennan help him with something difficult, and how would that impact how he sees her?

* * *

**_Couldn't Do It Without You

It all started with a phone call that came one night while we were finishing Thai and paperwork, for once at my apartment rather than hers. I was tempted not to pick up the phone, but when I saw the I.D., I had to, though I put it on speakerphone so Bones wouldn't think I was blowing her off.

"Mom. What's up?" I asked, sounding tired even to myself.

"Seeley," she said, her voice choked, "your father's dead. He had a heart attack last night." And then she started sobbing hysterically. Bones immediately sprang up and walked into the kitchen, giving me space as I switched the phone off speaker. Even as I drew the details from my mother, started taking down notes, and listened to all the shit I was going to have to clean up, I could hear with half an ear that Bones was making calls in the kitchen. When I finally got my mother calmed down, and confirmed that one of her girlfriends was staying with her, I rang off after assuring her I'd track down Jared, and be there as soon as possible to deal with things.

I felt a hundred years old when I hung up the phone, and like a giant was sitting on my chest. But Bones' muffled conversations in the kitchen intrigued me, so I hauled myself off the couch and into the kitchen. She heard me come in and turned, holding one finger up. "That's right, the reservation will be under Booth, first name Seeley, for one week. Yes," she said, reading off her credit card number, then gave my cell phone number. "Thank you. I expect the arrival will be around noontime tomorrow."

She had a pad of paper out on the counter, with a bunch of information already written down in her neat hand. When she hung up, she came over, placed her hand on my arm, and said matter-of-factly, "I'm sorry you have to deal with this. I took the liberty of calling your office and advising them that you'd be out for a week to assist your family, and have left a message for Rebecca to call you. I just made hotel reservations, in case you wanted them-- I got you a bereavement rate."

I stood stunned for a moment. The woman gave efficiency, backup, and unquestioning friendship a new name-- there was no way I could do this myself, and she did it without my even asking. "Thanks, Bones," I responded, the words completely inadequate. She looked hesitant for a moment, then asked "Would you like me to come with you? I wouldn't impose on your family, but I am sure there are paperwork matters to be dealt with while you spend time with your mother, and I could deal with the more practical burial matters too."

I nodded, speechless. After those three big words, "my dad drank," that I told her over a month ago, we hadn't discussed any of it further, not even Jared. Bones never presses on personal matters-- she just lets you be. "That would be... yes. Thanks." Her hand on my arm squeezed me as I accepted her offer of help.

"I'll tidy up and take the file home with me to finish tonight while you call your brother."

Jared. I would need to find him and let him know. Goddamnit. Every time I think I'm free of it, I get pulled right back in. At least Bones was going with me this time.

* * *

I picked her up first thing the next morning. We dropped the file she'd finished for me at the office, and then hit the road. She'd made a list of numbers to call now that it was regular business hours, and programmed the ones I would need into my phone as I drove. While I was on the phone with the hospital, she called her lawyer for a referral to someone in Philly, since Mom also told me with a shaking voice that there was a second mortgage even though the house was supposed to be paid off-- last week there were foreclosure papers and she didn't know where any of Dad's pension or benefits papers were.

When we got here, after throwing our stuff in the suite at the hotel and heading straight off to the house, she started calling around for funeral homes, while I called the lawyer and made an appointment for later that week. Imagine my shock when I heard her say "Thank you Father, we'll do that," as I was getting off the phone.

"Who was that," I asked.

"Father McKenzie," she answered. "He's your Parish Priest, correct? I thought he could recommend someplace that would ensure that your mother had whatever ritual comforts she wanted. He gave me a few names," she continued, pointing to a list she'd made.

I just needed to see Mom through it-- Jared would have to muddle through on his own, although he'd at least shown up sober no more than two hours after Bones and I got to the house. It was as tidy as it always was, but so shabby-- nothing had changed since I left to speak of-- he drank any money that would have been used to redecorate. While Jar and I sat with Mom, Bones waded through all the papers stacked all over the place in his office, finding what we needed in less than two hours. We swung by the hospital to do the ID and get the death certificate while Jar stayed with Mom. The body looked so much smaller-- like no one to be afraid of. Even still, though, cold crept down my spine. I shoved the drawer back in too harshly, while Bones just stood by and said nothing.

Death certificate in hand, we then went to the bank with the foreclosure papers and some documents Bones found at the house, a copy of the death certificate, and the name of the lawyer we were seeing later that week. They were initially full of bureaucratic bs and said there was nothing they could do about the foreclosure proceedings, but Bones started throwing her weight around with words like fraud and life estate and innocent spouse, and they shut up and called their lawyers to tell them to hold off until they'd heard from the lawyer we were going to see.

I went back to the house, then, and lent her the truck to go to the funeral home and pick out what was needed-- Mom was too distraught to make any decisions, and Jared was hardly much better, though at least he was making Mom eat. I, on the other hand, had anything but a dignified burial and appropriate ceremonies in mind as I went through the rest of the papers Bones had collected. Better to let Bones handle the burial arrangements while I tried to get a handle on getting Mom past this. I never worried that Bones would get all anthropological or atheist on the priest-- she'd always been the most respectful and observant of anyone ever attending our victims' funerals. I was sure she would pay my father more respect than anyone owed him-- which would make Mom happy, at least.

* * *

And then in a blur, the worst part was over. Two nights of wakes, the funeral Mass, the gathering back at the house with all the church lady casseroles and some things Bones ordered, my mother's friends and those few of my father's that he hadn't managed to alienate all gathered around to express their condolences. There were more neighbors and "friends" present than I'd seen all the years that we were growing up. Now that he was dead, they were all coming out of the woodwork. We left Mom, tired but doing okay, to Jared, and made sure there was more than enough food in the fridge for supper and breakfast for both of them before leaving.

"What were you and Mom talking about?" I asked, as we drove back to the hotel, and away from the post-funeral insincere condolences, all the people making a mockery of real grief, who had the gall to call him a good man to my face, much less my mother's.

Bones looked at me quietly, with the same kind sympathy she usually reserves for the children of victims, before answering. "She was saying she wished we were staying with her and your brother at the house, and I told her that we had a trial to prepare for, and had been videoconferencing late at night and early in the morning every day this week, so we didn't want to disturb her."

She understood, without my ever telling her, that there was no way in hell I could stay under that roof, once I'd escaped it all those years ago-- then covered for me with my Mom, somehow knowing that while Jared and Mom might find it a relief to stay in a house that was finally quiet, finally peaceful, I would still hear the yelling, wait for that telltale creak of the stairs, all the other noises that went along with him being there and my needing to be ready to get in the way again. I hadn't eaten at all at the house the past four days we'd been here, to my mother's dismay-- but just being there made me nauseous, and the thought that I might have to help sort through his clothes and other things just made me sicker. Maybe I could get Jared to do it while we saw the lawyer. He'd at least been good about keeping Mom company. They were was so griefstricken-- you'd think some part of them would be relieved-- but I never understood why she didn't leave when we were gone, either. Love can be wonderful, or sick.

"Thanks, Bones," I said, again incapable of mustering the words that would express that I couldn't have done this without her. "Was Jared bothering you? I saw you talking to him while I was speaking with Father McKenzie."

"No. He was fine. I was asking after your mother, and he said that the women from church were making arrangements to stay with her once you two were gone. He said they were going to confession tomorrow afternoon."

"I should probably go."

"I told him you might want to-- he said he'd call if the plan changed. You should go-- the appointment with the lawyer isn't until the late afternoon, I can clean up the house a bit while you three are at church."

Once again, I could only say the inadequate "Thanks, Bones," but she squeezed my arm anyway-- just what I needed right then. She was just was I needed any time, let's face it. Even my mother, as griefstruck as she was, took the time to say "Oh, Seeley, she's such a good girl, such a help."

* * *

We had a nice quiet dinner in the steakhouse attached to the hotel, though I'm sure Bones would have preferred the sushi place across the street-- with tablecloths and real silver and rugs on the floor, you could look out over Rittenhouse Square and feel swanky and like you hadn't a care in the world. Even if it was only until dinner was over. Bones ate her salmon and sipped her wine, I chowed my steak and plowed through more scotch on the rocks than I should, and we talked about nothing more than the sights, since for all her world travel, Bones had never been to Philly before.

It was lovely, and I regretted more than anything in the world that I was having what would otherwise be a romantic dinner with Bones all because my father had died, and she'd silently insisted on helping me through it. I hadn't even made a token protest-- as soon as I heard her making that call to work for me, it was like she'd lifted a hundred pounds off my chest. When dinner was over, we went to the lounge, where I drank more scotch and Bones sipped more wine, then went back upstairs, where I drank even more scotch in the suite between our rooms, and she opened another bottle of wine.

Funny thing about me and drinking. It never makes me happy, or even particularly drunk-- violent, either, unlike my father. But once I start, I don't stop until I'm done brooding. I need a release? I go gambling-- or now, to the gun range or the gym. Drinking never did that for me, which is why I don't need a drink like Dad did. Like Jar does. But when I'm in the mood to feel sorry for myself, there's nothing like a bottle of good scotch and a killer hangover the next morning to really hammer the wallowing in self-pity home.

Bones sat in the chair catty corner to the sofa I'd sprawled across, my feet on the coffee table.

"You've got black socks on," she said, nudging my foot with her stocking-clad foot. Even her toes were beautiful. We'd kicked our shoes off when we got in, but both still had our funeral clothes on.

"Fits my mood."

She looked at me a bit and said, "Well, they're not who you are."

I couldn't help myself from snorting a bitter laugh. "Know what Rebecca used to call me when I was fighting the itch to play cards? Seeley Brood. Black socks are very much who I am, Bones."

She tipped her head to the side, thoughtful. "I disagree. Your colorful socks very much represent your desire to bring happiness to the people around you and yourself. That's who you are, regardless of how you feel now. I don't think you're broody, either, Booth."

She was serious, sitting there in the moonlight under the window, the deep grey-blue of the high collar on her dress framing her face and matching the color of her eyes. I wondered if she does that on purpose, wears all those blues and greys and blacks and creams that set off her pale skin and incredible eyes. Probably not. She's not vain like that, she just never wears bright colors, except sometimes those clunky necklaces of hers. For all her opinionated pushiness about her bones and the evidence, and her general bad-assery with perps, Bones is actually pretty quiet most of the time. Quiet colors for a quiet temperament.

"Yeah, well, I feel broody as hell right now," I said, then took another swig of my scotch.

She took another sip of her wine, regarding me quietly. "Would you rather I left you alone for the time being?"

"No," I said quickly. "I'm not feeling chatty, I know, but you're good company, Bones."

She smiled a half smile, then took another sip of her wine, turning partly in her chair to look out the window over the square. Only woman I know who can get a front and center three room suite at the swankiest hotel in town at a bereavement rate, and I did check to make sure she wasn't just trying to snow me and pick up the tab herself. Of course, she'd also been signing every copy of her books every single one of the hotel staff (politely) shoved in her face every time we walked through the lobby, or that they'd leave on the table in the middle of the suite's living room. At least they weren't knocking on the door.

"It's pretty, the Christmas lights still on the trees, and the park," she said quietly, her nose almost pressed against the glass. "There are supposed to be some self-guided walking tours of the area-- I might do one in the morning if there's time," she said, musing.

"You should. There's some houses and churches on the historical register and the area's just nice for walking around in."

She nodded thoughtfully but said nothing more as she watched the cars circling the square and I watched her. I never know if she's ignorant of, or ignoring how much I look at her when she's not looking directly at me, but she either hasn't caught on, or has decided not to call me on it. Why she puts up with me, I'll never know. I'm a lucky bastard, I guess.

So I worked on my scotch, she worked her way through a bottle of wine, she looked out the window, and I looked at her and brooded-- until I was done brooding, and had come to what conclusions I could. Normally, I'd keep it to myself, but it was Bones, and I knew by this point I could tell her what I thought without worrying what she'd think of me. Boy, did that take a while-- but she'd taken everything I'd thrown at her so far in stride and kept up, so I could at least set aside the worry that one day she'd be shocked by something I hadn't told her yet. So I told her.

"I'm more angry at myself for not even feeling guilty at how relieved I am that he's dead than anything else. And I'm relieved because now I don't have to kill him for ever laying another hand on either of them."

She turned back to look at me, stretching her feet back out until they touched mine on the coffee table and nodded, accepting. Amazing, all over again. She replied with a question. "You're not angry at your mother or Jared for being sad, everything notwithstanding?"

I shook my head. "No. The heart's a funny thing, Bones. The unfamiliar's so scary that we just keep holding on to what we know, no matter how much it hurts us. Having it taken away is a shock, either way, because now you've got to figure out how to live some new way. I don't blame them. I just feel sorry for them."

"You shouldn't feel guilty for being brave enough to try the unfamiliar, Booth." If she only knew how that sentence applied to her, how much a coward I was.

"Brave. Hah. Try running away."

She shook her head. "Try recognizing that things might be better elsewhere, and taking the leap into the unknown. And don't tell me you didn't try to get them to come with you, time and again. I know you did, and your mother only confirmed it this afternoon."

"What did she say?"

"She said that you sent home half your pay during your enlistment to a savings account your father didn't know about, and that when you came home you tried to get her and Jared to move near your apartment in college, since you figured with your part time job and the military tuition benefits you could afford to support everyone. She also told me that even when you were gambling, you never let those deposits to that savings account stop, and that sometimes that was what paid for groceries when everything else was gone. She told me, too, about whatever encounter you had with your father after her broken arm and your return from the Balkans, and how whatever you said meant he only ever threw objects in harmless directions and yelled thereafter. She said, Booth, and I quote, '_Seeley tried so hard, it's not his fault I couldn't leave, as much as I knew that I should_.' And I told her that I agreed with her."

It was like she'd stuffed her hand into my chest and ripped my heart out, to show me it wasn't as black and shriveled as I thought it was. I couldn't breathe for the concise, true way she put it. Bones-- always blunt, always honest.

She looked at me for a long moment as I tried to wrap my head around this whole new way of looking at things. She said nothing more as she poured herself another glass of wine and then leant forward to pour me another tumbler of scotch, holding it out toward me. I took it automatically, and took a long, fiery swallow that burned almost as much as the relief of not having to feel angry or guilty-- relief that I could just feel relieved. It made me dizzy, all that weight sitting on top of my chest gone, so I took another swallow of scotch.

She didn't seem to expect a response, and turned again in her chair to look back out the window.

"Thanks, Bones," I said, otherwise speechless.

She turned and gave me a sad smile. "Don't think anything of it, Booth."

I kicked her foot lightly when she turned back to look out the window. "I do think something of it, and I appreciate it-- all of it. I... this would have been impossible if you hadn't helped out. You're a good friend, Bones. The best." It was true, and at least more words of gratitude than I'd been able to muster so far.

She gave me another sad smile, then said, "Well, that's what friends do. You've done more than enough for me, after all."

She finished her wineglass with a grimace, looked at the now nearly-empty bottle of wine, and grimaced again. "I'd love some more but I'd better not if I'm going to get up tomorrow at a useful time."

I looked at my own bottle and saw I was almost done. "You're probably right," I sighed. "Much as I'd love to just sit here and suck down another."

She tipped her head and looked at me to see if I was serious. "Well, you do what you need to, Booth. However you feel about it, it's a big deal one way or the other."

"Yeah," I said, gulping the rest of the scotch and standing. "But I'll be headachy enough in the morning, I'd do better to just take some aspirin now and hope for the best." I looked at her, still in her chair, and held out my hand. "C'mon Bones, upsy-daisy, or you'll miss your squinty walk around the neighborhood in the morning."

She smiled and let me pull her up, but either I pulled her up harder than I intended, or she weighed a lot less than I might have guessed, because she ended up crashing into my chest, her lips and nose inches from mine.

"Sorry," I said, slightly speechless, and yet unable to either let go of her hand or step back. She smelled so good, and felt warm and soft where she'd crashed into me.

"It's alright," she said, looking slightly dazed herself. She looked down at the hand I was still holding, then back up at me as she drew her lower lip between her teeth, her eyes widening.

Every single day since Caroline's stupid and yet perfect puckish Christmas kiss, it's been a struggle not to kiss her again. I was tired of struggling. I kissed her instead.

She seemed surprised when I slid my hand up her back and pulled her closer, but her eyes closed when I started kissing her, and I was a fool to have waited this long again, because she tasted as perfect as she did the first time under the taste of the wine she'd been drinking-- sweet, and slightly spicy like cloves and cinnamon. Her lips as she responded to me were so soft, completely unlike the sarcastic cracks that sometimes come out of her mouth-- although she'd been nothing but straightforward and kind this week.

I didn't want to ask what she thought about it, didn't want to spend hours telling her how I felt-- I just needed her, and she was responding. This week had been a long lesson in knowing I couldn't do it without her, and I didn't want to do without her at all, any more.

I pulled her until she was flush against me, and her hands made their way up to grab my jacket, just like Christmas except there was no prosecutor to keep me from doing what I'd wanted to do even before that kiss but never had the guts to do. I did now. I picked her up, and it wasn't just that I'd pulled her too hard-- she was much lighter than I thought she'd be, even though I'd hauled her out of burning taxi cabs and collapsing coal pits before. She wrapped her arms around my neck and kept kissing me as I managed not to stumble over anything on the way to my room.

When I set her down in the middle of the bed, she gave me that look she has right before she decides which way the evidence goes and she tells me what to do next, then knelt up and silently started undoing the top buttons on her dress, all the while maintaining eye contact with that look that says she's waiting to see what comes next. I pulled my own things off as quickly as possible, tossing them off to the side-- I had another suit, I could have that one pressed before I needed it again-- then joined her to face her and finish undoing the buttons down to her waist. I pulled up her dress and tossed it away, pausing to take in the gorgeous sight of all that skin just barely covered with this skimpy pearl grey lace lingerie-- I always wondered if she went sexy or sensible. Not that sensible wouldn't be sexy on Bones, but sexy was even sexier.

"You look nice," I managed, before pulling her in for a kiss again, one hand roaming down her back to feel all that skin under my hands, those incredible curves of hers I'd always itched to touch now within reach. She pressed herself against me, kissing me back with everything in her, her own hands tracing my back and shoulders. I couldn't help but grind myself against the lace of her panties a little, and she gasped in my mouth at how hard I was for her.

"More than nice," I said, as we parted for air, and she looked at me dazedly again, running her strong thin fingers over me in a way that sent shivers through me. I'd spent more than my fair share of time wondering what it might feel like to have those fingers exploring me, and now I knew, but more than that I wanted to explore more of her. I pushed her back into the bed, admiring those long white arms and legs both slender and toned, those incredible curves only hinted at under her jackets, or labcoats, or whatever lucky piece of clothing got to be closer to her than I did.

I knelt over her, tracing each curve with my hands as she looked back at me, unblinking as she traced each line of muscle she could reach, her own gaze admiring. With a small curve at the side of her mouth, she ran her fingertips over my shaft, then grasped me lightly in one hand as she brought her other hand up to cup me and knead me with her warm little palm. A wordless groan escaped me as she started to stroke me, and that little smile of hers got only wider. In my wildest dreams I'd never have dreamt what her hands were doing to me, for all the time I'd spent watching her place and touch evidence with precision, the right level of firmness, and care. Her hands seemed like they were everywhere, pulling, stroking and kneading, each fingertip, palm, pad of thumb put to astonishing use. I was sure that I'd come and yet was incapable of telling her to stop, she just felt so damned good, but that trick she had with her thumb under my sac pushed me back from the edge when I was sure I was going to go over more times than I could count. It didn't surprise me as much as it could that she seemed to know just when I couldn't take anymore, and would back me away just long enough to build me back up again.

She never said anything as her hands worked their magic, just gave me that secretive smile when I wasn't panting or groaning so hard my eyes were glued shut. At last, though, she seemed content to slow a little, and I bent to kiss her only to have her scoot down under me.

Though normally Bones taking me into her mouth is number two or three on my Christmas list, right after kissing her and being inside her forever, I didn't want her to, not quite yet. I rolled to the side, pulling her up into my arms, then rolled on top so I could kiss her until she was panting as hard as she'd just made me. I explored her mouth leisurely, tasting her teeth, her cheeks, her talented tongue, giving and taking until her hands holding me to her were languid, not gripping. I tasted her slowly as I pulled her underthings from her, each curve bearing her own scent or her overlying perfume, her skin warm and silken under my mouth. She was making low "aahs" as I kissed and sucked at particularly tantalizing curves, and when I first went to taste her heat, her purr as I flicked my tongue over her clit made me so hard I could have come right then.

She opened herself to me and the smell and taste of her was like heaven. She gripped my hair as I flicked my tongue over her, savoring each rosy fold and cleft, and groaned when I licked her more firmly. I lapped and sucked at her until her hands were spasming in my hair as I held her legs open, and she screamed when I plunged my tongue into her heat, her soft tight walls even more delicious than the outside of her. I brought her close so many times I even lost count, backing her off with my mouth as I kneaded and stroked the perfect globes of her breasts with my hands. Her wordless moans and whimpers as she tugged at my hair only made me want to draw it out longer, but at last her gasped "please" registered through my own gratified groans at how good she tasted. I sped the pace of my tongue in her, curling and sucking as I started to stroke her hot little bud. She started quivering, and though there would have be no way to know before being with her that she was close, I knew that she was, and curled my tongue in time with one last push at her clit. She screamed, arching away from me as she shuddered from the force of her release, so I knelt up again and pulled her so she was half kneeling so I could suck at her breasts while she rode out the rest of her tremors. She was holding onto me lightly, panting into my shoulder as I tasted the creamy flesh, her arms looped over my shoulders.

Still tasting my way over her breasts and stomach, I sat lotus style on the bed, then trailed my fingers up the inside of her thigh, exploring her wet folds until she gasped as I spread my fingers inside her. She threw her head back, a low moan escaping her as I withdrew and returned to her, then moaned again as I urged her to spread her legs to straddle either side of mine. My hands on her hips, I drew her down to me, and her eyes locked with mine, she sank the rest of the way onto me, wrapping her legs around and behind me.

I moaned her name as she took me all the way in, her heat all around me as I held her to me, one hand at her back, one hand at her nape so I could kiss her. Her long exhaled "Booth" and the look of concentrated bliss as I filled her was-- well, my heart swelled two sizes larger. Holding her close, I started rocking my hips into hers, and she splayed her hands over my shoulders as she rocked downward to meet me.

I don't know how long it went on-- timeless is a cliche unless you're in the middle of it, and then it's just true-- but timeless it seemed, until I felt myself gather even as she did, her whimpers of pleasure rising in speed and tone as I rocked into her more quickly. "Come with me, Bones," I said, and her eyes glazed as she looked back at me, she sped her own hips against mine. It was like fireworks-- I'd never come so hard or so long in my life, and judging by the way her breath sobbed in her chest, neither had she. She'd collapsed against me when she came, her head falling forward, her breathing rapid and shallow in my ear. I pulled back just enough to kiss her, and with a groan, lifted her from me so I could just lie down for a second and let the pulse hammering through me die down. I flopped on my back, and still looking at me so quietly, she let me pull her down into my arms until she lay on my chest, her moist shallow breaths tickling my ribs.

God and my confessor know I'm no virgin, and I've spent whole weekends making love or just flat-out screwing for fun, but this was different from anything else. I'd given her that little speech about what it meant to make love that left her looking a little gobsmacked-- but this was like nothing that I'd ever experienced, either. I'd wanted her, for a long time, but I had no idea she wanted me too. My heart swelled about a dozen more sizes.

I drifted, loving the feel of her in my arms at last and her light weight on top of me, and must have finally dozed, because what woke me was the feel of her tongue, licking my shaft back to attention-- full attention, and quickly, with small quick flicks of her tongue over my growing length. "Feels so good," I managed, and she chuckled "I should hope so," then took me into her mouth, sucking gently.

It was the single longest, most intense, most incredible blow job I'd ever had, and I struggled to keep my eyes open to enjoy the sight of her hair spread all over my stomach. Each slide of her cheeks or flick of her tongue on me was so perfect that it felt like the only thing left in the world was her mouth on me. She never brought me too close to orgasm-- just kept up a slow intense series of sucks and flicks of her tongue that made it impossible to believe I could ever be with anyone else ever again. Not that I wanted to. At last, though, I was able to get my mouth around something besides "Oh God," or "Bones" or the occasional "Temperance," and say "I need you here," as I tugged at the arm she'd looped over my stomach to brace herself. With one last slow slide of her cheeks over me and a soft kiss at the tip of my shaft that practically made me explode right there, she turned back to look at me, a curious look in her eyes as she knelt up and straddled me.

I pulled her down so she was lying on top of me, circling her waist with my arms as I entered her again. She sighed, eyes closing, then met me as I started a rhythm, her arms braced next to my sides as I pulled her head down for another kiss. She rode me slowly, her warm depths taking me in each time our hips met. I wanted, no, needed her skin against mine and held her tight at the waist so she remained lying atop me, while I nipped and sucked at her neck, her face, her chest. Her release eventually caught up with her despite the slow pace she'd set, and long moaned "Booth" and her shuddering walls milked my own from me as I filled her one last time. She'd rested her head in the join of my neck and shoulder, so I pushed her sweat-dampened hair aside and laid kisses down the side of her neck. She whimpered as I contracted inside her and rolled out from under her, but sighed happily when I pulled her into me, spooning her body with my own.

I pushed her hair aside again, and kissed and sucked at the back of her neck and her shoulder. "Oh..." she whimpered, pulling the hand I'd looped over her waist to her mouth, and laying a kiss there. I pulled her closer, holding her along the line of her chest and over her heart where she'd pulled my hand up. She slept and I did too, but at some point she shivered and snuggled back into me-- we'd fallen asleep without my pulling the covers up, and the room became colder as night wore on. I sat up a bit to find the covers and pull them up over us, and as soon as I left her, she whimpered. I immediately lay back down behind her and pulled her to me tightly again, and she heaved a sigh, still asleep. I dozed again, but woke as she wiggled her hips into mine, clearly dreaming of something pleasant given the smile on her face.

I slipped an arm under her so she would still feel an arm at her waist, and drew my fingers between her legs slowly. She sighed, and rolled slightly back into me, tilting her hips just enough to make room for my hand. I touched her folds and clit lightly, drawing the wetness that was already there over her, moving slowly so she wouldn't wake yet. She unconsciously rocked her hips back into me, but her breath still the deep even measure of sleeping. I continued to stroke her slowly with my fingers as her wetness increased, then slowly and gently lifted her top leg just enough to enter her heat. She sighed and wriggled against me, still asleep, as I started to rock her, one hand holding her to me at her waist as I started to circle her clit with one finger. The feel of her walls taking me in, so hot and soft and perfect, and the weight of her top leg bearing down on me was incredible, the increased pressure from the position and her weight more than compensating for the shallower strokes I'd have to take. I started to kiss and suck at her back as I continued to stroke into her, circling her clit all the while. Her sighs in her sleep shifted as she slowly woke and let out a long "oh," as I filled her again.

"Seeley," she whispered as she arched into me, her voice soft from sleep. She'd never called me just by my first name before, but then, I rarely used hers either. "Yes, Temperance?" I whispered back, then circled her clit with my finger as I filled her again. She let out an "aaahh," her answer lost in her pleased nonverbal response, then wriggled her hips back into me.

"You like that, baby?" I asked, the "baby" unconscious and leaving me wondering if she'd flip around and kick my ass, but she only said "mmm" as I rubbed her clit with my fingers and kept rocking into her.

I slowed up a few times when I almost came and she whimpered at the change in pace, her hand on the one I was circling her clit with urging me to move faster. I brought her right to the edge then, and slowed until I could start moving without going off-- soon she was writhing against me, my arm at her waist holding her to me as she sought to take me in deeper. I kept rubbing her sensitive button, the wetness slipping from her as we joined giving me what I needed to keep up the pressure as I thrust and withdrew. When she was trembling and making plaintive mewls each time I left her, I slid into her more forcefully, speeding the pace. "Oh... please," she whined, her need tinged voice making it impossible to deny her. As if I'd ever say no to her when it counted.

I increased the pressure and speed of my fingers on her clit even as I pulled her more forcefully to me at her waist, until I was withdrawing and returning only halfway at a time, but firmly. She began moaning freely, her response to me making my balls almost impossibly tight as she whimpered and ground herself into me, her "oh, please"s interspersed with "Seeley"s and "Booth"s. With one tight squeeze of her clit, she suddenly stiffened and screamed, her walls clamping shut on me so tightly that with only two more strokes into her I came like a rocket, shouting out "Bones!" at the top of my lungs.

I was practically blinded by the force of it, and only slowly came back to myself as I realized she was still shuddering in my arms, sobs wracking her frame. "Hey, Bones, shh," I said, "you alright?"

She gulped and nodded, sobbing again, the force of her shudders so strong I slipped out of her as her whole body shook. I pushed up on one elbow to look at her, and her eyes were screwed shut as tears leaked down her beautiful face.

"Bones, hey," I asked, my voice catching at how hard she was crying, "tell me what's the matter."`

She just kept crying, so I turned her around to face me. Rubbing her back and smoothing her hair back from her face, I kissed her forehead and screwed-shut eyelids until she gradually stopped crying, her hiccuping breathing finally slowing. I kissed her nose as I continued to rub her back, waiting to see if she'd open her eyes or tell me what was wrong. Instead, she brought a hand up over her face, her whole body flushing red with embarrassment as she mumbled "Oh, Booth, I'm sorry."

I pulled her to me, hitching one leg over hers so she'd have a harder time getting away, and tugged the hand she was hiding behind away from her face. "What's to be sorry about, Bones?" I asked, as she looked at me, her eyes both sad and guilty, and she flushed all over again. She licked her lips, looked profoundly embarrassed, but nonetheless answered my question, her voice trembling as she spoke.

"I just...I thought it was a dream... and it's not... but I know I'm not your type... and... you just need a release with a friend... and I know you and Cam... but I... and I promise I won't ever bring it up ever again but... it's so nice to feel wanted, and I'm sorry I'm being so foolish when I know you don't really... but I could almost feel like..."

My heart shattered into a thousand pieces at what she was trying to say, at what she thought was going on, and at what she'd intended to do after tonight. She wanted me, and was giving herself to me on the assumption that this was just a one-time cathartic thing, and was just going to stuff her poor battered feelings down and try to go back to normal afterward-- thinking I'd never been interested in her, only thought of her as a friend-- that I would be casual with her like I was with Cam. No wonder she'd looked sad and serious earlier.

"Bones, sweetheart, you're wrong," I said. "Come here."

I pulled her forward and tucked her head into my shoulder, her body flush against mine as I spoke in her ear and continued to rub circles on her back.

"Don't ever think you're not my type, Temperance, because you're the most precious thing in the world to me," I finally said. "I've wanted you for a long time, and been a coward for not telling you so, and you're not at all foolish. I'm sorry, Bones. I should have said something a long time ago."

Her "really?" from the depths of my shoulder was so small and uncertain that my heart broke all over again.

"Really."

"Then why..." she murmured, sniffling.

I tipped her face up to look at me, so she could see I was serious. "Like I said earlier. The unfamiliar's so scary that we just keep holding on to what we know-- and I knew you were the best friend I've ever had. I didn't want to ruin that. It scares the life out of me to think about not having you in my life, Bones. I don't know what I'd do without you, and not just at work."

Her eyes welled again, and I tipped her head up further so I could kiss her. "Don't cry, Bones, please? I hate it when you cry."

She took a long ragged sniff, concentrating so hard that I had to pull her tight so I could squeeze her. I dropped another kiss on her nose, and she laughed weakly as her eyes crossed watching me. I pulled her head back into my shoulder, running my hands firmly over her back and sides. "I'm sorry, Bones, really I am."

She just nodded, taking ragged deep breaths as she still tried to calm down while I tried to soothe her with my hands. I hitched her bottom half more firmly under my legs so she was as close as I could possibly get her, then started murmuring nonsensical endearments in her ear until her breathing finally evened. I knew she was feeling better when she chuckled lightly after I called her "my sweet baby," and she said "if you ever call me baby at work, you will live to regret it."

"That's my Bones," I replied.

She chuckled again, then pulled back far enough to rest on my arm under her head and look up at me, her expression serious again. "I am sorry," she said. "I don't usually burst into hysterical tears in bed."

I kissed her softly. "Stop apologizing."

She smiled then, a smile so gorgeous I had to kiss her again, although again really implies wanting to stop in the first place, when of course the only real imperative was breathing, and I suppose eating enough to keep going. Her mouth molded to mine, her arms twining behind me, her sweet mouth cool from the ragged breaths of her crying. My hands wandered of their own will all over her curves, stroking and cupping and feeling her as her chest and legs pressed into mine. Her own hands splayed on my neck and the back of my head, those little strong fingers of hers threading themselves through my hair as she kissed me back, pressed herself closer, gave herself to me. I was cupping her incredible ass, pressing her hips into my straining erection. As I ground against her repeatedly, her head fell back as she panted for air. A small groan escaped her as I kneaded her curves, and I took the opportunity to kiss and suck at the front of her throat and the hollows of her clavicles, the fragrant dips of skin there where her natural scent and perfume both lingered. Her hands clasped me to her as I continued to taste her, her own hips rotating against mine. Rolling back from her a bit, I ran my hand down her top leg, and taking my hint, she shifted, hooking her leg up over my hip until I could align us and pull her onto me once again.

Her eyes fluttered closed as she took me all the way in, my own "God, Bones," met by her "Oh, Booth." I took hold of her top leg to hold her firmly to me, and her hands tightened on my shoulders as I began to withdraw from her. She pushed down on my shoulders to meet me; I pulled up on her hip to meet her. Each time our hips met, she sighed or I groaned. I clasped my hand at the back of her neck so I could kiss her; each time we paused for breath, she gazed back at me with this look of both trust and relief that had me feeling like the luckiest bastard in the world. It was timeless again, leaving her heat on the downstroke was only bearable because I knew I could return right away. I could feel myself gathering after a time, though I didn't know how I could be sure it was me because I really did feel like I didn't know where I ended any more-- so I pulled her leg up slightly further, and pulled her into another kiss, needing her sighs and moans in my mouth as I finished this. She met the increased rhythm and force-- a perfect complement to me-- her own hands on me starting to flex and grab as her moans became louder and sighs shifted to mewls.

"Come on, Bones, come for me," I gasped, so close I could practically taste my release. "Bones, sweetheart, I love you, won't you please come for me?" With those words, a violent tremor shook her as she called "Oh! Seeley!" aloud, then flooded around me-- my own release joined her flood until we were awash in hot warmth as her walls trembled around me. I gathered her closer as I continued to pulse inside her, her own trembling slowly abating until she stilled within my arms, our hearts hammering together.

She finally tilted her head up to look at me, a shy look on her face. My Bones--shy. So I kissed her again, whispered "I love you" over her lips, and pulled her close to me again. Her "I love you too" was soft, but her breath over my heart as she said it was searing.

* * *

When I woke, it was midmorning, and her limbs were entangled with mine, her head resting over my heart as my arms clasped her to me. She was beautiful- she always had been, but sleeping, she was smaller, more fragile looking than she appeared when she was awake. And she let me see her like this. I was blissfully happy just to hold her and watch her sleep-- and what had happened between us made the thoughts of what still needed to be done even less bleak-- I would get through them, because she helped me. I let her sleep, though she'd have to do her neighborhood walk some other time, and when she woke not long before noon, her first response was a smile-- one that I knew no one else on this earth had seen before.

We ate lunch downstairs quietly, not much different from our usual conversation except for the holding hands part, and headed back to the house to get things started for the rest of the day. My mother noticed something was different immediately, but said nothing other than to call Bones "dear" when she thanked her for staying there and finishing up all the cleaning left from the reception yesterday. Too, she didn't quiz me on it while the three of us went to confession, each taking our turns-- and when we'd returned, she'd actually made my Mom some tea and warmed up a coffee cake. With her there, I could actually have a bite, so I did. We chatted about anything but what we'd be doing this week, and when it was close to time to go, Bones gathered up a bankers' box worth of papers to go to the car.

"Here, Jared," she said. "Help me with this."

I arched an eyebrow at her, which she ignored, and Jared, still scared of her after whatever argument they had those months ago, jumped up to help her, taking the box. I saw them talking outside for long moments, Jared shaking his head until Bones poked him hard in the chest and raised her voice about something.

"Your partner's a lovely woman, Seeley," Mom said.

"Couldn't do it without her," I replied.

"Then don't," she said with a soft smile.

As I looked out and saw Jar back off from Bones, nodding agreement at some order she'd issued, I spoke no truer words than those at that moment. "I'm not planning on doing without her ever again."


	9. It's a Guy Hug, Just Take It

_**A different take on ****Mount Everest's You and Me, set after what will be Booth's kidnapping by the Gravedigger in Hero in the Hold. (Not aired at the time of this writing.) The original was T-rated fic in the non M-Rated Magpie's Nest that ended with her giving him the guy hug, but I got several PMs wanting to see this as smut, and have had some PMs in the past where people have said they'd like to see Brennan be the initiator. Hope this does the trick!

* * *

  
**_

After you finished the immediate paperwork, made sure his brother for once took responsibility and took him home from the hospital while you dealt with the remaining questions from the rest of the Agents and prompted the rest of the team, even Cam, out of their exhaustion to answer their questions, you walked out to the front of the hospital. Jack followed you.

"Are you going to see him?" he asked.

"Of course," you replied.

He looked at you a long moment, then said "Did he stay with you that night?"

You shook your head.

Jack looked angry, all his own unresolved torment coming out to the forefront all over again. On your behalf, this time. "Then why does he deserve you keeping him company?"

You looked at him levelly. "Because I remember what it was like to think I would never see him again. No matter what happened afterward, I always remembered that. I don't know what he thought when he didn't know what would happen, but it doesn't matter. I know what he feels like-- I can at least be there for him."

He nodded, accepting. "I'll drive you."

You cracked a smile. "Good. I think I lost my wallet someplace in all the commotion. It would be hard to catch a taxi that way."

Jack laughed, all the tension and terror and furious energy breaking all at once. "Temperance Brennan, admitting she's a bit less than completely prepared."

"It happens sometimes."

He laughed again, then walked you to his car. The drive there was silent as you looked out the window feeling grimy, exhausted, a million years old, and infinitely relieved. At least you had your keys in your pocket. Somehow you'd managed not to lose those.

You used your key to his place for the first time, letting yourself in quietly. Jared was sitting on his couch, jacket and tie off, hat tossed to the side, looking tired and relieved and you hoped now, appreciative of what you both almost lost.

"He's in the bedroom," Jared said quietly. You nodded. There wasn't much else to say to him, and you were too tired to have words for anyone besides Booth. He took another look at you, then stood and gathered his things. "He needs you more than he needs me, I think," then passed you, his hand briefly squeezing your shoulder before he walked out, shutting the door quietly behind him.

"Did you say something, Jar?" came Booth's voice, as he wandered out of his bedroom, undressed. Looking exhausted, and relieved, and under all of that what you knew was repressed suffocating terror. He stopped as he looked at you, too shocked for the moment to say anything.

It was feeble, but it was the only thing you could think of. "At least I didn't break into your bathroom this time."

He looked down at himself, realized he was naked, and laughed weakly. "No, no you didn't." Still, he stood looking at you, then started speaking again in a half-strangled voice as something shifted in his face.

"I didn't come to your place... then... to make sure you were okay," he said shakily. "I... let you go home by yourself. You... didn't even have a Jared."

You shook your head. "No. But it's okay. I got over it. You'll get over this, too."

He snorted, a long ragged exhalation following it, and a shudder of cold passing over his skin.

You took a step toward him, then said "You should finish getting changed or whatever you were going to do before I came in."

He nodded and said hesitantly, "I was going to take a hot shower-- I'm freezing-- but I ... I ... couldn't quite find the nerve to get near any water right away."

You were bad at this, but you remembered how getting in an elevator or your car by yourself was terrifying those first few weeks. "You go get started, let me take off my coat and I'll come sit on the other side of the curtain and keep you company, okay?"

He nodded agreement but seemed unable to turn around and do as suggested. Well, he'd said once that you could give him a guy hug if he got scared. While what you felt far exceeded a guy hug, you could at least give him that. You took one step toward him, then another, and by the third step you were there, and had wrapped your arms around his waist, his cold, clammy skin. He paused for a moment, so you looked at him and smiled. "It's a guy hug. Just take it."

His arms closed around you then, and you squeezed him with everything in you. For now, having him back was enough.

* * *

You sat on the other side of the curtain after shedding your coat, your earrings, your shoes, and after a long moment, your stockings, tucking them in a small corner in his living room. You were tired, your skin was crawling, and you needed to get out of as many of your clothes as you could. Booth wouldn't mind if you made yourself a little more comfortable. You babbled to him about random things so he could just hear a voice as he showered and the steam billowed out. You outlined your plans for Hallie and Emma's next visit in two weeks and filled him in on the news you'd just heard from Carol Grant less than twenty four hours before.

"Andy's birthday is next month. She wants us to come down for the party."

"She does?" he asked, sounding pleased and surprised.

"That's what she said. We can cross my new bridge," you said, smiling to yourself.

"That we can," he said, laughing. You were so glad to hear him laugh. He would be okay if you could make him laugh, this early on.

You filled him in on the further details of the party, what else Carol told you about the health of the town, and whatever else came to mind. After not much longer, the water stopped.

"I'll be out in the living room," you said then. "I'll leave the door open."

"Okay, thanks," he said, hesitantly.

You sat on the sofa, thinking about not much of anything as you stared at his bookcase and his pictures of Parker. His son. His son still had a father. You'd been able to do that. The thought of how close it might have otherwise been made you shudder, however, so you pulled the blanket you supposed he kept there for Parker over yourself.

"Cold?" he asked from behind you.

"Yes," you said, turning around to smile slightly at him. "Sequins aren't particularly insulating."

He'd changed into some sweatpants and a zip front sweatshirt, and you supposed he really was cold, because at least in his home he stuck to t-shirts. He snorted at your explanation, then said "Well, you'd be warmer if you hadn't already taken practically everything off."

You shrugged, not wanting to remind him that it had been an around the clock marathon to find him and you weren't at your best, lest he lose the slight relaxation he seemed to have gained.

"I do have my moments of illogicality," you said, trying to make him laugh again. It worked.

"Illogicality, Bones? Even I know that's not a word."

"Maybe I just coined it, okay?" You took another look at him and decided he should probably eat something. Getting up, you headed toward his fridge, padding past him in your bare feet.

He had bacon and eggs, bread and milk. No vegetables to speak of.

"You want french toast or bacon and eggs? Or should I order you takeout? Or are you not hungry?"

He looked at you, somewhat surprised. "You'd cook bacon?"

"Of course. Bacon's like God, Booth. Just because I don't believe in it doesn't mean other people can't."

He smiled slowly. "You take the cake, Bones."

"Sit. I'll make some coffee unless you just want milk."

"No, coffee's good."

You drank coffee, made him bacon and eggs, watched him eat as you sat next to him on the sofa, his arm looped casually behind you. Just like a thousand times before. And now, going on into the future. For now.

"Aren't you going to have anything?" he finally asked.

You shook your head. "I'm not really hungry." It was true. The wave of nausea that struck as soon as you realized Booth had been taken still hadn't abated. It was as strong-- stronger maybe-- as when he'd been dead, because you still hadn't told him how you felt. You were such a coward, and here he was, having to have gone through this all by himself when at least you'd had Hodgins. He might have thought that he was alone at the end. It was too much.

"Booth," you said, your voice husky as you took the leap into the unknown. "I... I want you to know something."

"What, Bones?" He still looked on edge, still looked chilled, still had that flickering something you'd seen in your mirror for weeks deep in his eyes, and now he was looking at you, confused at your tone.

You paused, trying to find the words. You couldn't. Temperance Brennan, bestselling author, speechless. So you sat up to face him, straddled his lap, and kissed him, taking his face in your hands and pouring all the pent-up worry and yes, love that you had for him into the kiss. You kept your eyes closed, not yet willing to see the look in his eyes until you were done telling him with your lips and your tongue what you couldn't say with your voice.

He didn't respond, so you stopped, sat back, dared to look him in the face. He looked stunned, stammered out "That's not a guy hug," and then trailed off, looking at you.

You flushed. "No. It's not. Do you have a problem with that?"

The erection quickly building beneath you said he did not, but what his body said and what his heart meant were two different things, so you waited, though normally you'd have been all over any other man by now. Not that any other man you'd ever wanted to sleep with, much less been in love with, ever was kidnapped and barely escaped death before.

He looked at you a long moment, shaking his head dazedly. "But... no... but..."

That '_no_' was all you needed. You sat forward, clasped his face, and kissed him again. This time his arms enfolded you quickly, his hands splaying over your buttocks as you sat forward, pressing your chest into his. You explored his mouth, tried to breathe warmth back into him, tried to tell him what you'd been wanting for say for longer than you wanted to admit to yourself. He quickly responded, clasping you to him as insistently as you were pressing yourself to him, his mouth drinking from yours. You broke apart, gasping, then bent to kiss your way over his jawline, down his neck, to the collar of his sweatshirt, then made your way back up again. He pushed your skirt up, slid his hands over the back of your legs, leaving goosebumps in the wake of his warm palms as he settled his hands over your panties. He ground himself up into you as you rotated your hips against his and continued to kiss and bite at each inch of exposed skin.

Pausing, you let go long enough to pull your dress up over your head, baring yourself to him as you kissed him again, slowly unzipping his sweatshirt. You looked at him, no, stared at him as the two of you had stared at one another before, giving him ample time to stop this. If he wanted to. You hoped that he didn't.

He didn't. As you finished unzipping the sweatshirt, ran your hands over the planes of his chest, he pulled you even harder over his straining erection, then pulled you closer to him so he could nuzzle the curves of your breasts. You pushed the shirt back from his shoulders, and he shrugged it off the rest of the way, sitting forward as he did so. Before he could sit back, you ran your nails lightly over his back, scratching only enough to let him know you were there, that he wasn't alone.

His hot open mouth placed sucking kisses all over your chest as you scratched your nails over his back, and he growled as you did it again. Keeping eye contact with him, you backed off his lap, standing before him in your bra and panties, the ridiculous sheer lace underwear with side ties your usually never wore, except at Angela's insistence when she was helping you get ready for parties. "_C'mon, sweetie_," she'd say. "_You never know when you might need them_." Apparently she knew what she was talking about.

He gazed at you hungrily, and you returned the look unabashedly. He started to stand, and you let him, but only long enough to step in and push down his sweatpants-- he hadn't bothered to put anything on under them, and you happily took him in hand, stroking his firm length and heat with an appreciative eye. He was perfect. Looking back at him as he groaned when you stroked him again, you felt a smile curve the edge of your mouth.

"Sit," you said, pushing him back on the couch as you kept hold of him the whole time, kneeling in front of him and tugging his pants the rest of the way off. He started to protest, but you cut him off by taking him into your mouth, sucking him firmly. His protest turned to a gasp, his hands quickly twining themselves in your hair as you brought your other hand up to take his sac in your palm, cupping and kneading him as you started to slide him in and out of your mouth.

You'd been with larger men, or thicker men, but none so ... well proportioned. He fit. In your hand, in your mouth, in your life. You knew he'd either laugh or be embarrassed at the sexual and romantic juxtapositions running through your mind right now, but he wasn't acting embarrassed right now as you sucked at him. You ran your tongue firmly under the underside of his shaft as you slide him out of your mouth, then repeated the motion as you took him back in again.

He gasped, groaned your name, even your first name and not just "Bones," flexed his hands in your hair as he tried not to thrust himself into you, and you continued your ministrations. You knew how to prolong fellatio long past the point when a man might otherwise orgasm, and used those techniques and your hands and your mouth to pleasure him, enjoying the sounds of him responding to you and the deeper, spicier notes of his usual scent as you sucked and kneaded him. Your own breasts were heavy and tingling, your own core empty and aching as you continued, but he was enjoying your actions too much for you to be willing to stop just quite yet.

"Oh, God, Bones," he finally groaned, taking your shoulders and pulling you upward to straddle him again. He looked dazed as you looked back at him, lowering your head to kiss him again. His tongue tangled with yours as his hands made their way up your back, unclasped your bra, took your bare breasts in his palms. You ground your hips into his, the sheer fabric utterly soaked with your longing for him, and he groaned even as he took one breast in his mouth, his skilled hand on the other creating warring and equally pleasurable sensations.

It was your turn to gasp as he sucked and fondled you, your hands on his shoulders as he held you to him. You writhed as his lips on your skin tasted you, tongue swirling and flicking and pressing as frissons of electricity shot to your core. You were so lost to his mouth on you that it was only after he'd untied the sides of your panties and tugged them from you that you found your core pressed against his naked erection-- the heat of him burning you.

You pushed away from him to look at him and make sure one last time. As if what had already happened wouldn't change everything already-- but you still needed to know. His hands at your waist pushing you up to center you as you felt the tip of him poised at your entrance was all the answer you needed, and grasping his shoulders, you sank onto him, taking him in. His own gasp as he reached the end of your walls was met by your moan at the sense of incredible fullness of him within you. He fit.

Eyes locked, you smiled at him as you started to move. He joined you, each of you giving and taking as your hands on his shoulders and his hands at your waist brought you to meet in the middle, much like the rest of your partnership. Quickly, and perhaps not surprising given how long you'd wanted him, you found yourself whimpering with tension as you continued to take him in. His hands on you tightened, pulling you more firmly to him as he pulled you forward enough to suckle your breasts again with such devoted attention between his own moans of pleasure that you were crying his name aloud, heedless of how much noise you were making. You came without warning, your walls clenching and gripping as you continued to ride him, your rhythm lost and strength waning under the force of the waves of pleasure still crashing over you.

He pulled you to him hard one last time, then came with a shout of your first name, his arms clasping you to him almost spasmodically, your hearts hammering hard in your chests.

Your hands looped over his shoulders, you panted and moaned as one last warm pulse of him filled your core. His arms circling your back finally loosened enough for you to sit back on his knees and look at him, the two of you groaning as the motion caused him to slip out of you.

You looked at him a long moment before you shifted forward to kiss him again. His lips melded with yours, your breath joining until you both needed more air.

"They never were guy hugs," he said with a half-guilty look on his face.

"I know," you said, smiling. "I took them anyway."

"Thank goodness," he murmured, then winked at you. "I never hugged a guy friend like _that_."

"I should hope not," you said, shifting and standing. "Come on, Booth. I'll let you hug me again."

His laugh as he came up behind you, scooped you up in his arms and carried you the rest of the way to his bedroom was much better than any hug that came before. You'd take it.


	10. Yeah Baby Garter Snakes Calvin & Hobbes

**_"Yeah Baby, Garter Snakes and Calvin & Hobbes." _**

**_Some fun, fluffy smut._**

* * *

It was a long case and it was a hell of a long day to finish it out. It took a long time to get a long confession before handing the perp, now the murderer, over to the local boys at the under-staffed middle of nowhere, halfway across the country field office for further processing, but in the end it was good they'd called you two in, because they sure as hell couldn't have figured it out. They practically didn't even have microscopes. You could tell Bones was appalled by the lack of scientific equipment, but she figured it out anyway, commandeering a side lab at the county hospital without too much snottiness. At least they had internet service so she could beam the stuff to the lab for the squints to confirm her conclusions. God, it was hot when she bitched about '_substandard working conditions_.' And now that the case was over, you could go back to your regularly scheduled programming, "_Dirty Thoughts About Bones_." A masterpiece in smutty, inappropriate theater.

When it was over, you were both so tired that you only picked at your food at the all-night diner, and mostly just because neither of you had eaten more than bad vending machine coffee and a bag of pretzels. It was fuel, and fuel alone that you were after. You didn't even want pie, you were that tired. But the diner had the attraction, if it could be called that, of being just off the black-as-night local route to the only motel halfway to the airport, which otherwise would have been four hours away tomorrow. Better to split the trip in half. So, bleary-eyed, but at least assured that the local boys did call ahead to book you rooms, you headed off to the motel. The first plane out was at the end of tomorrow. At least you could catch some sleep in the meantime.

There were two rooms available at the whole place-- it was one of those old hunters' style cottage-y things. One on either end of the complex. It would have been funny to both of you if you weren't so tired when she went to take a shower and found that some garter snakes from the garden to the side of her cottage. Instead, five minutes after you left her at her door, she was calling you on your cell to ask if she could please sleep in your cottage because "Yes, I know, it is illogical to be afraid of garter snakes, but I find myself too tired to be logical."

"Come on over," you said, looking around at your room. These little places were pretty seedy and scary most of the time, but this was actually nice. Fresh sheets and blankets, nothing smelling like mildew, throw rugs on floors that were refinished sometime in the last ten years. A little kitchenette complete with cornflakes, a tiny fridge with small paperboard containers of milk, and a coffeemaker with decent supermarket coffee. Even a sleeve of crackers and another of cookies. And a bathroom with a hot shower-- you'd already taken yours, no garter snakes guaranteed.

She was so tired when she knocked, her overnight kit from her bags still in the truck tucked under her arm, and her expression so rueful yet tired pathetic, that you couldn't even laugh at her. She'd stuffed her shoes back on her feet and her arms back into her coat, but had already changed into her pyjamas, an oversized, button-down-shirt style night shirt, before she discovered the seething den of three garter snakes. You called to the desk while she set down her things, assuring the desk that you were both too tired for her to wait for them to send someone over, and she'd be here so they could remove the snakes at their leisure.

She shook her head ruefully again, said "Sorry, thanks," and laughed when you pointed at the shower, holding your nose and waving your hand to indicate she should take her turn. You silently admired her retreating long legs, those tapering slim calves and ankles, then shook your head at the thought of those legs. Man. This was turning into one of those screwball comedies where a man and a woman with little in common but witty banter and sexual tension get thrown into an unlikely situation where there was no choice but to reveal your feelings to one another and resolve your unresolved sexual tension. And boy, when it came to Bones, well, you could cut the UST with a chainsaw. Although you were sure Hodgins could come up with a squinty but more accurate and wildly inappropriate way to describe it.

When she was gone, the door safely closed between you, you looked around again. A small room. That now smelled like whatever perfume she wore, no matter how tired or dirty she claimed to be. You were adults. You weren't going to freak out. There was no couch for her to sleep on, though of course you would have insisted on taking it if there were. Anything to keep your impendingly very large and very painful erection out of view. Why the hell did she have to smell so good? You couldn't decide whether to curse or bless garter snakes right about now.

So you took the usual side of the bed you slept on, bunched your pillows as far over to the side as possible, and lay down, your hands under your head as you stared up at the ceiling. And lots of blankets over your hardon. Down, boy. You'd shared a room in Vegas, though the bed had been a California king, not a queen size like this. That was okay. You could do this. Of course you'd only wanted her on a only-in-dreams and keep it under control the rest of the day kind of way back then. Now you wanted her every single minute. But you were a big boy, and not just in the tent in your boxers-- you could let your very tired, very beautiful partner get some sleep without molesting her. Goodness knew you avoided jumping her every minute all day-- after all, you should be sainted just for managing to keep it in your pants every time she bent down over one of those exam tables. Dead bodies be damned-- her live one was, well, wow. But you could hold yourself back. Why should sleep be any different?

When she came back in, she'd brushed her hair, and it hung dark and wet around her shoulders and makeup-free face. Of course, the woman could make a Hefty bag look sexy, and Lord knew those blue jumpsuits were close. She gave you a small smile before she set her things down on the bureau next to yours and flicked off the overheads, then slid onto her side of the bed, the lifting covers sending a cool puff of air into the cocooning warmth you'd already created. "Sorry to put you out," came her quiet, tired voice in the darkness.

"Nah, no worries, Bones," you said. "Sleep well and sweet dreams," you said, your automatic benison to Parker coming out, since God knew you weren't telling anyone else goodnight these days.

Rather than snorting at the endearment, however, she quietly said "you too." She'd been quieter lately-- less sharp with the cracks. You wondered why, since you were kind of used to the sarcasm by now-- you'd actually had to tone yours down after a few times when your automatic response to something she'd said was way more cranky that her initial statement. What was that quote? She was a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, in an engima and all that poetic jive. You told it over in your head until you slept-- better than thinking about those legs of hers, wrapped in yours, and boy, would you give her an enigma. Damn. You could make even a Winston Churchill quote turn into a dirty thought about Bones.

She was cold, her teeth chattering, and you were only dimly awake and aware of the fact. She was still on her side of the bed, and God knew what time it was, the alarm was on her side. Well, you couldn't let your partner freeze. You pretended to roll over toward her onto your stomach, hoping she'd warm up a little just because you were close enough for your body heat to reach her. More than one woman you'd dated said you should change your middle name to "oven." It seemed to work, and in about five minutes or so, she seemed to breathe more deeply, and you fell back into sleep, studiously ignoring how nice she smelled. Stupid garter snakes. Your boa constrictor was totally frustrated right now.

You were dreaming-- you knew that. Sometimes you did, and part of your brain commented on what you were dreaming like those annoying jerks at the movies who have to comment on what's happening, stating the obvious when you're just trying to enjoy the damned movie. But in the dream her entree into the cottage was as silly and overblown and romantic as all those stupid bodice-rippers Camille was always reading when you two were whatever you were this last time, and instead of just telling you she needed a shower, she told you she needed _you, Seeley, you, I just am melting with desire_, _please make love to me tonight, tomorrow, and all the rest of our lives_, looking at you shyly from under those long eyelashes of hers. In the dream, things took their natural course, a more romantic and tender version of the same dream you had at least once a night most of the time these days. Some nights, the dreams were more sexy and angry, others more teasing and slow, depending on whether you left her feeling annoyed, amused, or just longing and melancholy under your brief smile goodnight. But most nights, your dreams of Bones left you with a boner on waking. "Get a hold of yourself, man" took on a whole new meaning since you'd started working with Dr. Temperance Brennan, and boy, did she ever have the cure for what ailed you.

In this dream, as in others if something like an alarm wasn't so rude as to wake you, things reached their natural end, and she fell asleep entwined in your arms. If she only knew what a sap you were under your "healthy alpha male" exterior. In the morning, inside your dream, you pulled her close to you once again, eyes closed as you inhaled the scent of her hair where her head was tucked under yours. One of your hands stroked the bare skin of her back, as the other instinctively pressed her hips to yours. She made a noise, almost a purr, saying sleepily, "Mmm. Don't stop," then ran her hands along your sides where she held you in return.

You pulled her even more closely, your hand at her back pressing her chest to you, and she snuggled into you further, the scent of her near-overwhelming. It was almost like she was almost here in your real arms. But no, your inner commentary was too loud now to keep dreaming. You might as well wake up.

Oh.

You weren't dreaming, not totally. At some point during the night, either you'd pulled her closer, or she'd come closer to you, and now she was, in fact, entwined with you, her head buried in your shoulder, your arms around her and hers around you. And your hand up her nightshirt.

"Mmm, why did you stop?" she murmured.

"Shh, you're dreaming," you heard yourself say, as you sometimes did to Parker when he crawled in bed with you and he started to mumble as he woke up when you wanted just ten more minutes, just another half hour. The power of suggestion, such as it was. Suggesting she not kick your ass all the way back to D.C., making the plane flight unnecessary.

It might give you time to gracefully disentangle yourself, but oh, this was so nice. She was warm, she was soft, she felt as exactly ... right as you thought she would, and if she'd just take your suggestion and go to sleep for a bit longer, you could have just ten more minutes, another half hour, pretending.

"Are you dreaming too?" came her voice, sleepy and soft.

"Mmm-hmm, go back to sleep," you said quietly, mindful that her head was tucked under your own, her body making no move to disentangle itself from yours.

"Good," she said softly.

Her breath was so warm and soft against your chest-- you closed your eyes, inhaling her deeply, and took those just ten more minutes, just another half hour, just some time when you fell asleep long enough for your dream to pick up again where it left off. Eyes closed, she tipped her head to kiss the side of your neck, press her hands into your back, undulate her hips against yours. You pressed back, then shifted your head to press a soft, long kiss to her lips as you admired her long lashes brushing her soft, luminous skin. Her eyes opened.

Her eyes opened. You were kissing her-- you were awake. And so was she. And now, she was looking at you. "Are you dreaming this time?" she asked, an uncertain look in her eyes.

"No," you said hesitantly. Was she going to kick your ass? Because your boner for Bones? It was pressed right up against Bones.

"Good--" she said. "I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can be together all the time," she said, looking straight at you, then kissed you back as sweetly as she had in your dream. The words sounded familiar and convinced your suggestible still half-asleep brain, especially since all you wanted to do is _not_ stop what you were doing.

The body's instincts on waking are a good thing-- they take over before your brain quite has time to catch up and remind you of annoying things like inhibitions and lines. Just boxers for you, since you rarely get cold at night like girls do. Just that sleep shirt for her. Your hands were already up under it, your hands having roamed in real life where they were in your dream. She snuggled closer to you, hands tracing your back, and deepened the kiss. The clothes tossed aside without either of you needing to go to much effort, which was good, because it was chilly in the room. Pulling the blankets up further over you both, you cupped her curves in your hands, explored each dip of rib into hip, breast into stomach, thigh into knee, calf and ankle.

She traced each muscle and bone, but didn't name them aloud, although having Bones in bed would more than compensate for whatever squint talk she wanted to spout. Truth be told, she made '_occiptal_' sound '_occ-sexy_.' At some point, the yawn-Latin-for-Mass turned into hot-damn-Bones-Latin-for-bones. But now, she was just looking, touching and tasting, in the early morning quiet-- and that quiet look she'd been giving you, that you'd seen before but never quite understood was now clear-- interest. Something more. Since when? Since Andy? Maybe before. Stop thinking and do-- your dreams can come true, it can happen to you, you told yourself, even as you snickered inside at the Walt Disney quote when your thoughts were far from G-rated.

You tasted her skin, and she tasted better than any imagining, her skin silk and warm, salty and sweet all at once. She sighed as your mouth closed over her breasts, teased her nipples to attention with slow flicks of your tongue. You'd always liked making love in the morning-- it was slower, not rushed, warmer, both your limbs already languid, the smell and heat of both your bodies leaving you both primed to prolong it all as long as possible. Her own mouth moved over you as she kept you pressed to her, and you couldn't stifle the gasp as her own tongue found your nipple, teased you, as her hands on your rear squeezed and kneaded you, then came around to grip and fondle you as she continued to place small nips and kisses all over your chest. Her hands on you were just ... perfect and you groaned as she started to stroke your shaft and knead your sac, her hands moving in time with the feel of her teeth and tongue and lips on you, slow and firm and warm and just ... incredible. Finally, you couldn't take it any longer, at least not if you were going to take it as slow as you wanted to, so you pulled her up to kiss her.

Then-- you needed more of her. You rolled her onto her back as you slid down into the warm darkness under the blankets. Her musky sweet scent, the small thatch of curls, her quivering wetness as you first ran your tongue over her-- so much better than you thought it would be, and you'd put a lot of thought into the matter, already convincing yourself how good she would be. You couldn't stifle a moan of pleasure at how delicious she was, and her own gasp as you licked her more firmly was all the encouragement you needed. She opened herself to you, and you tasted her depths slowly, deep curling strokes of your tongue in her center, short, flicking tastes of her folds and the bundle of nerves at the crest of it all. She moaned your name, gripped your hair, bucked her hips, thrashed and rolled a bit, all for you, so you drew it out longer, trying to decide who was having a better time just right then. It was probably even-- her voice sounding like that when she said your name was about the best thing you'd ever heard.

When she came, she didn't scream or jerk or wail-- her hips undulated slowly under your mouth, her limbs falling limp as she let out a long sighed "ohhh." You laid soft kisses down the inside of her perfectly soft, perfectly toned, perfectly perfect thighs, licked the underside of one knee teasingly until she did jerk and moan a little. You made your way back up to her then, laying kisses on her belly, each breast as you swirled your tongue over her and relished in the look of pure abandoned pleasure still sealing her eyes closed. Hovering up on your forearms, you bent your head down to kiss her, and her hands twined behind you, holding you to her as she responded fully, her tongue seeking yours.

She shifted, rubbing against you with her slick heat until you groaned at the feel of her against you-- when her eyes fluttered open, she gave you this dead-sexy look before she shifted her hands, grabbing your hips as she ground against you more insistently.

"Hungry, much?" you rasped, and she smiled.

"Maybe," she said huskily, her own voice still low and thick from sleep. "Aren't you always after me to eat?"

A laugh burst from you as she gave you a sly smile, then ground against you. Without another word, you shifted back and entered her in one long, unbelievable stroke. She yelled wordlessly, arching against you as you shouted "oh, holy Jesus" at the feel of her surrounding you.

"Oooh," she said as you pulled out and returned to fill her again-- you laughed, then gave out your own involuntary "oooh" as she squeezed you with her walls. She smirked and grabbed your hips to pull you hard to her again.

You couldn't help it. An "oh, holy fuck, Temperance" escaped you in a groan as she rotated her hips against yours, and she laughed at you this time. She felt so amazing, you had to leave just so you could return to her, sink into her depths, a groan escaping you both as you finished the stroke. She wrapped her legs around you tightly, holding onto you as you concentrated on the fact that she felt so damned good that it was like you'd never done this before. She seemed to think so, too, because she was certainly letting out many an appreciative moan. "Occipital?" Sexy. "Oh, yes, Booth, so good?" Way, way sexier.

"You like that, huh, Bones," you managed, when she hissed as you came back to her a bit deeper. As if you were going to have much control over giving her what she liked for much longer anyway.

"I suppose," she said with a smirk, then surprised the holy hell out of you by clamping her arms and legs around you and somehow managing to flip you onto your back without knocking the breath out of you too much.

"Geez, Bones..." you grunted, "if you wanted to be on top you could have just said so," then quickly lost your breath at the sight of those fabulous breasts swaying there, just calling out to you to be held. No, really, they were calling to you, and they had pretty much been calling to you since the day you met her. (Though the words varied, it was always something along the lines of "_Seeley! Touch us! You know you want to! We promise it'll be worth the karate chop and/or kick in the nuts!_" And you weren't even going to think about what her ass said to you when Bones' back was turned on you.) Well, you could answer their call now.

She laughed, grinding her hips into yours. "Well, I always ask to drive, too, and you always say no. I figured I'd better just take the initiative and... ohhh," she groaned, as you finally got to start doing some of those things to her breasts you'd wanted to. She writhed as you cupped and massaged her with your fingers and palms, your thumbs on her nipples pressing and stroking her as you lifted and bounced her in your hands. She braced her hands on your stomach, lifting herself only to sink back onto you, the taut muscles of her belly and thighs working as she straddled you. She was taking her time, angled so that she wasn't taking you as deep as you wanted to be, but hey-- you had no objection to letting the lady drive every once in a while.

"Well, see, Bones," you panted, "this is a stick shift, not an automatic... it's different" and she opened her eyes to laugh at you, the vibration of her laughter squeezing your shaft inside her.

"Right. Because your stick shift doesn't slide into gear pretty much every time I bend over an exam table." She ground onto you harder then, her nails scratching your sides.

"Bones!" you exclaimed, finding it hard to be embarrassed or horrified at this point. "You're supposed to ignore the fact that I was ogling you."

She just bent forward to kiss you, chuckling over your lips. "I'm pretty sure you were supposed to ignore whatever you were ogling." She stayed put, kissing you again, so you pulled her flush to you, letting your hands grasp her hips as she clasped the sides of your face and kissed the daylights out of you, her hot breasts pressing into you.

The two of you built a rhythm again, and she was panting as hard as you soon, her hands braced on either side of you and eyes screwed shut as she thrust and squeezed and ground in return for each thrusting twisting push of your own. She started to falter a bit, though, and you took the keys back, rolling her and sinking so deep into her that she cried out in wordless but pleasured surprise.

You really weren't going to last much longer-- you weren't eighteen any more, but what you lacked in near-instant recovery you hoped you now made up for in technique, since it would be as long as five minutes before you'd be ready to go again (what? you were slow compared to teenage you, not mere mortal men)-- so you decided that the nice complement to the incredibly sexy long climax you gave Bones earlier would be a screaming, shattering, shriek-your-name-climax so every other male in the tri-state area knew that yeah, baby, just, _yeah baby_ Bones was screaming for you. So who was the alpha-male, now, baby? Not that you'd tell her that. It would hurt if she kicked your ass just about now. Plus, the blue balls would really, really suck. That, and the pissing off the woman you loved when you just wanted to give her the best orgasm of anyone's life, not just hers thing. Mostly that. But the ass kicking? An added incentive to not letting her in on your inner monologue.

You hitched her legs up suddenly, and boy were you glad she was flexible, because her legs just went over your shoulders like that, and she made that surprised noise you were really starting to dig. Forget things like shirts and jackets-- you only wanted her legs on your shoulders from here on out. She grabbed your forearms to hang on, her fingers and nails digging into you as you started to pump into her, and "Damn, baby, you feel so incredible," you grunted. Oops.

"Don't call me baby," she whimpered as you returned to her, "but oh... God... oh fuck, so good," which was really all the encouragement you needed. Hell, here on out? Breathing would be enough encouragement, now that you knew what she felt like.

You groaned as you braced yourself over her, sheathing yourself all the way to the hilt in her "Christ, Bones, you're so..." as she started to writhe again, so you sped up the pace, and she started to make fast little whimpers as she rocked back into you every time you came home to her. And then her "Ah... Booth's" became "Oh... Seeley's" which then turned into "Yes! Yes! Yes!" and then she screamed like a banshee, clamping you so hard with her walls that it was like, well, now wasn't the time for comparisons because "Bones! Ah!" Wow. Wow. Wow. Talk about best orgasm of your life.

You collapsed on top of her after pulling back enough for her legs to fall off to the sides, those perfect breasts heaving under your chest. Yeah, baby.

She started laughing, and you cracked an eye at her. "Did I say that aloud?"

"Yeah, baby," she said with a twinkle in her eye.

"Are you going to kick my ass now?" you asked, deciding the better part of valor was to be both meek and start to kiss her neck in the hope that she'd be distracted and decide to wait until later.

She chuckled, then flipped you onto your back again. Damn, how did she do that? Straddling you, though, you realized her hands were on your ass, between you and the bed, and she laughed again as she sat back until you slipped out of her.

"Quiet, you," she hissed in response to your own groan as you left her. "I had other things in mind, you're not the only one who's been ogling something they weren't supposed to." Her hot little hands flexed and then she shifted her head down and oh, yeah baby, eighteen again. This was going to be awesome. Thank God for dreaming in the same bed together.

She chuckled aloud. "You're going to have to get that '_yeah baby_' thing under control before we get back to the lab."

"Bones?" you groaned, as she continued to oh, my, no one ever did that to you before... "say occipital for me?"

"Occipital," she breathed, sinking onto you.

Yeah, baby.

* * *

You almost missed your plane, after almost missing the checkout time at the cottage what with so many other sexy Latin bones of the body to name, but you made it on and fortunately, all they had left was first class right next to Bones, which they let you have because you were '_one of the nation's finest, and we read about that horrible case in the paper_,' and after the stewardess left, Bones leant over and whispered in your ear, "She has no idea quite how fine you are," which hell, alpha-male? Was there such thing as alpha-alpha male?

"Bones, do you think the bathroom door locks?"

"I certainly hope so."

* * *

You were a gentleman, and saw her up the door. No _wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am_ in a cottage in the middle of nowhere, the airplane bathroom three times (who cares if the stewardess thought you had bladder control issues anyway?), the supply closet off the homeland security office at the airport while you were waiting for your bags to come off the airplane (badges had their uses, after all)-- this was a _please, ma'am, may I have another? _kind of thing.

She laughed and said "Well, since you asked so nicely," and got stark naked right there in the living room, then pouted, saying "you're still dressed."

This was so, so awesome. And that part where she just yelled "Oh! More!" Even better.

* * *

Unresolved sexual tension resolved, for at least maybe another half hour after the two of you ate pizza and then made more love on her living room floor (you always liked that throw on the back of her couch, but it sucked getting dressed for the delivery guy), you got up to get some water. Hydration was important, especially given what you had in mind for the rest of the day. And then, there it was-- the cause of it all. You filled a glass with ice and then water from the front of her fridge, looking at the usual things she kept on the front, still surprised she kept anything at all on her fridge. But she did, and had since she got a replacement for the one that blew you up. Sometimes you looked, sometimes you didn't-- the collection was small and only grew slowly. But there-- there it was. On her fridge, along with a pictures of her brother and nieces, one of the team, one of you, Parker and Max downstairs in the lab, Parker showing you some experiment (when did that one go up?) there was an old laminated comic strip, yellowed even under the plastic, and held at either end by two magnets.

Lying together in bed, looking up at the ceiling, a small striped tiger, an imaginary cartoon friend, told his little cartoon boy-- "I think we dream so we don't have to be apart so long. If we're in each other's dreams, we can be together all the time."

She came up behind you, wrapping her arms around your waist, and you turned, both amused and a little bit wondering. "You seduced me with a Calvin and Hobbes quote?"

She smiled. "Me? As I recall, _you_ were already kissing me even if you thought you were dreaming. You just needed a little ... suggestion to keep going. And isn't it true, anyway?"

You smiled-- "It is. But I haven't seen it before."

She nodded seriously. "I got tired of dreaming apart thing, so I thought I'd put it out there and see what happened. It's been out here for three months, Booth. So much for astute observational powers."

"Bones. You don't believe in psychology."

"No," she said, smiling. "But I believe in Calvin and Hobbes. And I do believe I've already called you Tiger once during our partnership."

"Good enough for me," you said, setting the water aside and boosting her up on the counter. "But now, this stuffed tiger is going to stuff you," you groaned as she wrapped her legs around you and pulled you inside, then returned your smile wickedly.

"Holy... oh, wow, Bones." You pumped into her several more times, quickly, and her head fell back as she moaned "Oh, oh, baby, yeah, right there, oh, don't stop."

Yeah, baby. Thank God for garter snakes. And Calvin and Hobbes. And well… "Wow, Bones, oh, holy…"


	11. Waiting

_**Smutty, dirty, Brennan as provoker**__**. "Waiting." Because sometimes, we get tired of waiting.

* * *

**_She had no idea what she was doing to me. Getting ready for another date, right in front of me. Well-- that really wasn't quite fair to say. It was Friday night, it was after seven, and it wasn't like I'd said "_Oh, hey, Bones, I'm a total loser and plan on stopping by the lab to drag you out to the diner instead of manning up and asking you out on a real date_" before I walked in on her, putting in earrings and that sexy nude lipstick she wears.

"Bones, hey," I'd started to say before I walked in, then lamely ended off with a half-exhaled "whoa" as the smoke-grey chiffony number she was wearing hugged that gorgeous ass of hers when she lifted her arms to put in those dangly earrings she wears when she goes out on dates, ones that sway in time with her hips and her hair and her breasts when she walks. So not fair, what she was doing to me. And, she had that smoky eye and curly hair thing going on. She was put here on this Earth to torment me.

"Booth, hi," she said, absently. "We don't have a case, do we?" Her forehead furrowed with worry, and I suppose I would worry, if I were her and I was showing up with a case. Wherever she was going, it looked like it was going to be fancy. I wished I had a decent excuse, just to make the date impossible. God, I was a miserable bastard.

"Uh... no," I managed, hands in my pockets. "I was just coming by to ... uh ... but it looks like you've got a date, hunh?" Smooth. I'm getting more and more tongue tied around her, though you'd think I'd be used to it by now.

"I hope so. He's due to come get me, but he's running quite late..." she said, turning to frown into the mirror next to her desk as she checked her makeup one last time. I don't suppose I'd get any points for telling her she looks drop dead gorgeous at this point.

But he was late-- that was an opening. "Well, Bones, any guy who doesn't know that you're not the kind of gal to keep waiting isn't worth waiting around for. Let's blow this pop stand and you can ditch the scumbag and share some french fries with me at the diner."

She looked at me seriously. "I wouldn't call him a scumbag, not at all. He's quite thoughtful and kind, really, though I sometimes don't always quite understand what he's talking about, and we don't always agree on some things."

"Yeah, well, he's probably got a shady past he's not telling you about." Oof. That sounded petulant.

She just cocked her head again, regarding me calmly and not taking the bait. "No... we've discussed some of his past. Not a lot, but enough to allow me to conclude that while he's done some things he's ashamed of, I think no less of him."

Crap. She had put some thought into it. That'll teach me to tell her why, exactly, her past boyfriends haven't deserved her.

"Yeah, well, Bones, I still don't think that any guy who keeps you waiting is worth it."

She paused, thinking some more, and biting those gorgeous lips of hers as she stood there and breathed, those breasts of hers heaving under the nearly-sheer fabric of the bodice. She had no idea, none whatsoever, what she was doing to me. Crap, was that the edge of a black lace bra I just saw under the bodice as she shifted? She was killing me.

"I'm afraid I have to disagree, Booth." She stepped in toward me, a glint in her eye as she made up her mind about something. And decided to get feisty about it.

"He's very much worth waiting for, in fact his lateness is about his only real fault, though he's no saint, like he sometimes thinks he needs to be. But he's quite fun to be around, he makes me laugh, he treats my work with respect, and he's taken the time to get to know me, rather than just appreciate my physical attributes. I think. I'm not quite sure about that. He tries to be low-key about that, but I'm not unattractive, and I have seen him looking at me several times in a way that would indicate he appreciates my physique, though he's held himself back as he's rather old-fashioned about those sorts of things. And certainly, I have thought about his physique more than a number of times."

I should have backed down at this point, accepted defeat for the night, maybe even tailed her to wherever she was going just so I could make sure the guy wasn't a scumbag, but she had this sparkle in her eye as she described the dude-- like she started to have before Sully sprang that whole "_give up everything that you've worked for and come sailing for a year_" thing on her, and it was just making me jealous and mad. Why was I so chicken? We'd been friends for a long time, now, and she'd said she'd made the transition from friends to lovers with other guys. Not that I wanted to be any comparison with other guys. But still. What was holding me back? She was often clueless about other guys' interest in her, until they made themselves known. All I would have to do was make myself known. If only it were that easy.

"Sounds like you know him pretty well, and that he's a pretty big goddamned prize," I snarked, unable to help myself as I tried not to ogle her cleavage, tried not do something stupid in an attempt to turn that spark in her eye for this other guy into a spark just for me. "And yet, you've never mentioned him."

She just looked at me and said "Why do you care, Booth?" then turned and bent to drag some shoes out from under her desk, giving me an ample view as her oh sweet Jesus lace topped thigh high stockings peeked out from under her dress.

"I care, Bones," I ground out, "because you're my partner and I don't want some guy who doesn't deserve you hurting your feelings just for the sake of a roll in the sack."

She wheeled on me, looking pissed. "For your information, I haven't even slept with him yet. And I do not appreciate the insinuation that I am some kind of slut because I have biological needs that deserve to be met and choose not to spend my nights alone, even if it's just temporary."

"Bones, I didn't say you were a slut, you're not..." I protested immediately, then got distracted watching her chest heave and her nostrils flare. "I ... just ..."

"What?" she asked, closing in on me and lowering her voice in that way she has when she's really annoyed.

"I'm lonely, Booth, and if my date ever shows up, well, he's a great guy, a prize as you say, and I'd love to sleep with him since he's perfectly structured and handsome and I'm sure he will be an incredible lover. Hell, maybe it will work out, we'll get into a long term relationship, and I'll re-think my stance on marriage and babies. You've been quite convincing on those points, and while I'm not entirely sure, I can now concede the possibility might exist. I'm not getting any younger, Booth, and I'm tired of being alone."

Her eyes were flashing, her chest was heaving, her lips were spitting out low, sexy words, and I lost it. Especially when she said the part about sleeping with someone she might let give her babies. Mine, was all I could think-- My Bones, My Wife, My Babies, Nobody Else's, just Mine-- as I grabbed her by the arms and pushed her into the wall, crushing my lips against hers. She grabbed my jacket just as my brain was saying "_what the hell are you doing_," and held me to her as she sucked my lower lip into her mouth and bit it lightly. That was it. I let her go just long enough to shut and lock the door, close the blinds and turn on her as she stood, eyes glinting, chest heaving, and this look of challenge on her face.

"You want an incredible lover, Bones?" I growled, tossing my jacket on the chair in front of her desk. "Maybe you should have a basis for comparison."

"Fine, maybe I should, it would at least pass the time," she snarled, then pulled her dress up over her head to reveal a black lace bra, so low cut her nipples were barely covered, and a matching french thong so low cut that if I just ran my finger inside the hem I'd be well on my way to making her scream. Put it together with those stockings, those earrings, that hair and eyes, that lipstick, I was a goner. Shirt, tie, pants, boxers, hell, even socks, I wanted every goddamned inch of her skin on mine, all tossed as she watched me, making no move to remove one more whit of her lingerie. Like she knew what she was doing to me.

I advanced on her, and she stayed put, eyeing me like she was measuring me against this guy who was now just going to have to wait. "You want to pass the time, Bones?" I asked, then grabbed her and picked her up, tossing her onto her sofa until I could crawl in over her and trap her body under mine. "I'll help you pass the time. You're going to forget what time it is, what your name is, where the hell you are, Temperance."

"Prove it," she spat, and she had that same snotty look on her face from our very first case together that I'd wanted to kiss off her face right then and there. Well, I'd be damned if I was going to hold back now. I grabbed her face, held her in place as I kissed her, brought my full weight onto hers, claiming her mouth to make it mine, mine, all mine. She bit and sucked and kissed in return, scratching her nails on my shoulders not like a wildcat but like a cat in heat, and damned if I wasn't going to relieve that heat, bury myself in it.

I sucked the breath from her, biting her lip just enough to make her groan, as I flicked the first nipple through the lace of her bra. It came to attention and immediately spilled out of the cup, just like I thought it would, so I fingered the rest of the fabric aside and did the same with the other. Her breasts were perfect, soft heavy globes crowned with rosy pink nipples, and I groaned at the sight of them right before I grabbed her hands in mine and pinned them at her waist as I shifted back to taste her.

"You like them, Booth?" she panted, taunting me as she squirmed upwards against me, thrusting her flesh further into my mouth. "Don't think I haven't seen you look at them before."

"Don't tease me, Bones," I growled, when I came up for air. "You have no idea what you're playing with, here," I continued, then bent to suck and bite at her again. She wrenched her hands out from under mine, then pushed me back to grab me with both hands, effectively holding me in place unless I wanted to get hurt as she half knelt over me.

"I'll play with you if I want to," she said, her voice harsh and sexy, then started rubbing and stroking, kneading and pinching me just this side of rough. It felt way too good to stop her right away, and then felt too much anything except to just groan and try not to come right in her hands. I was going right over the edge when somehow she stopped me, my balls so tight they practically climbed out of my throat-- then she just stopped altogether, holding me lightly in hand and giving me this look like ... oh, fuck, I've really pissed her off and now I'm completely at her mercy. My mouth hadn't caught up with my dick yet, though.

"Jesus, Bones," I groaned, "Either let go or stop making me wait."

She jerked me once, digging her nails slightly in to make sure I didn't move, then knelt up on the couch and started rubbing herself over her panties. "Funny, that, Seeley," she hissed, the use of my first name calling me to more attention than I was already at, "you want _me_ to stop making _you_ wait, or you want me to let go so you can finish the job yourself, right? How about I just hold you here and jerk you around a bit while I taunt you with what you can't have, and leave you hanging? Why don't I do that? Everything happens eventually, right Booth?"

Oh, she was furious, and even as she started making little noises as she rubbed her own clit and through the haze of my needing desperately for her hands to keep doing what they were doing to me just thirty seconds ago, the words finally sank in.

"You didn't have a date tonight," I gritted out as I watched her shift to finger herself, her eyes closed and her nails still digging into me just short of painful-- and of course, I was still rock hard for her. "You were talking about ... oh God ... me," I groaned, as she stroked me once nicely, then took a hard grip again.

"Of course," she said, slipping a second finger inside herself, a small shiver passing through her as she did it. "And even if I did ... ahh... have a date, you'd have found some way to interrupt me or spoil it, wouldn't you," she demanded, her nails digging into me a bit harder as she looked at me, heavy lidded and flushing with the things she was doing to herself that I desperately wanted to be doing to her. "Wouldn't you," she said, shifting her grip to stroke me once, twice, three times so smoothly, so perfectly that I moaned until she stopped again. "Wouldn't you," she purred, rubbing her thumb over the tip of my shaft.

"Not on purpose," I managed, seeing where this was going despite my hammering need to be inside her.

She looked at me again, hissed "I don't believe you," then pushed her panties all the way to the side so she could rub her own clit with her thumb while she fingered herself. She moaned and arched against herself even as she dug her nails into me, driving her point home.

"I didn't mean it," I grit out. "Just let me..." and then I groaned as she stroked me once, perfectly, then squeezed me almost too hard. "I didn't think you... oh, God, Bones, please," I started to beg.

"That's right..." she said, panting and whimpering under the work of her own hand. "You... didn't think... you just did what... you felt like..." she began, then undulated against herself as she continued "ah... without any thought to whether I ... oh ... knew what was going on ... oh, God ... and respecting ... aaaaahhhhh ... your goddamned line ... which you didn't .... ooohhh." The smell of her as she stroked herself was making me dizzy. She was so close I really could touch her, but that hand around me threatened more than just physical pain if I didn't wait until she was done with the point she was trying to make.

"Bones... just what do you want me to do, just tell me..." I begged, and she smiled at me in approval, sliding her fingers up and down over me until I was practically cross-eyed and groaning, "oh, shit, Temperance, please..."

"I want you to stop making me wait..." she breathed, then shivered as she stroked her clit again with her thumb.

"I promise, please, just let me..." I started, and she rubbed her thumb over my head so expertly I practically came right then and there, so I grabbed her wrist just above where she held onto me, needing her to just stop touching me. Her angry, aroused eyes stared me down, her lipstick-shiny lips pouting and begging, demanding, needing to be kissed, even as she slowed her own hand's movements on herself-- but not completely. She was still out of reach.

"Let you what," she said, measuring. Her voice was so husky I shivered.

"Let me touch you," I said.

She stroked her hand over me again, and I moaned-- couldn't help it. "Just... stop, I'm gonna come if you keep ..."

She stilled for a moment. "What's the phrase? No take backs? You can't get back on your side of your line, Seeley," she said, her eyes glinting, as she started to stroke me again.

"I ... oh, God, stop that, I promise, I promise..." I babbled. I've never actually begged a woman to_ stop_ touching me before, but of course Bones would have to be different, like she always was-- always will be. Always will be. "I promise..." I managed again, looking her straight in the eye, hoping she'd believe me this time. She nodded once with satisfaction, a small smirk on her face, and let go, trailing one fingertip down the length of my shaft as she did so then started palming her breast with one hand as she picked up the pace in herself again as I sat there, practically dazed-- at least until she shivered again as she plunged her own fingers into her heat.

I pulled her to me, reached around to undo her bra, then started sucking at her as she let go of herself to grab onto me. Her fingers, wet from her juices, curled into my shoulders, and the scent of her made me dizzy all over again. I tugged her panties from her-- she was going to tease me with them? I'd tease her right back-- then tested her with my fingers. Dripping, sopping wet, so soft-- oh, my God. I rubbed her clit hard, once, with my thumb, then replaced her fingers with my own, smiling against the flesh of her incredible breasts as she let out a moan deeper and more throaty than what she'd drawn from herself.

I was a goner. I pushed her onto her back, pumping my fingers into her as I looked at her, flushed, gorgeous, and starting to writhe, feeling her tight walls around me as I played with her nipples, rolling and stroking her breasts in my other hand until she was whimpering, her eyes closed with pleasure. I took my time, teasing her back, and soon she was bucking against my hand, trying to take me in further as I randomly stroked her clit and pinched and stroked her breasts. "Oh, God ... more ..." she moaned, so I picked up my pace in her heat until she was frantic, moaning so loud I was sure the security guard would come running. "I ... I can't ... oh ... please," she begged, so I stroked her clit once, hard, and she screamed, her heat clenching around me so perfectly that my dick practically exploded in jealousy as I kept stroking her with my fingers.

She smelled so good, dripping all over my hands, that I pushed her legs up and away and dove in to taste her before she was done shuddering from her climax. She called out when I dragged my tongue over her then took her clit lightly between my teeth and teased her with the tip of my tongue-- it was enough to set her off again, and she screamed again, bucking away from me.

"Unh-unh, Bones, no backing off," I said, throwing her words back at her as I grabbed her hips and pulled her forward into my face, holding her there as I thrust my tongue into her still rippling heat. Her salt sweet slickness coated my tongue and she whimpered in response as the full taste of her made me groan. The way she was responding to me-- she was right, I'd been a fool for making her wait, and damned if I wasn't going to give her a hell of a lot of satisfaction right away.

I swirled my tongue as far inside her as I could, stroking and curling against her before pausing to leave her and suck at her folds, tease her clit with my teeth and her tongue before starting all over again, and I made her come twice more before she was so hoarse from screaming and begging that she was only squeaking and whimpering when I made her come with my mouth once again. I'd always enjoyed giving head, but really, I could give Bones head forever and not get tired of it-- those she was, well, not tired, but pretty damned floppy from my efforts.

After she finished shuddering from the last orgasm I gave her, I let go of her hips and made my way, sucking and kissing over her belly and chest to her mouth. Her eyes were sealed shut, her breasts heaving as she struggled for breath, so I took her chin in my hands to kiss her. Her tongue sought mine softly, and as I slipped my arms under her she sighed, complying when I said "Open your eyes, Bones..."

With some effort, she focused, and with a sexy smile just said "Wow..."

"Worth the wait?"

"Mmm..." she rasped hoarsely, considering. "I don't know... I think you still have some making up for lost time to do."

"Yes, ma'am," I said with a grin, then shifted my knees to part her legs and thrust into her before she could quite get her bearings.

Her half-closed eyes snapped open in shock, her own gasp met as she took me all the way in, her silk walls taking me home and my own "Sweet Jesus" drawn from me in a shout at the shock of how perfectly we fit together.

"Oh, God," I moaned, as I withdrew and returned to her, "No more waiting, baby, I promise..."

She rolled her hips against mine as she brought her arms around my neck to hold on, matching me stroke for stroke until we were both incapable of doing anything more than moaning or grunting or panting-- she was whimpering each time I came back to her, her chest pressed against mine and her head thrown back on the pillows of her couch, and holding on for dear life just like I was. She ground her hips into mine more frantically, finally whining "please, Seeley, please--" fine with me, since I was just about over the edge.

"What do you want, baby? Faster, harder, deeper?"

"Oh... yes..." she moaned. I slammed into her with everything in me, and she screamed hoarsely "Yes!" as I banged up against the end of her walls. It was a race to the finish, her screaming or moaning each time I filled her, my own grunts of pleasure as her walls started to seize me-- then she came all at one, flooding arounds me, her heat so all-surrounding that I was blinded by my explosion within her.

I must have collapsed onto her, because when I came to myself I was breathing into her neck and hair, the couch under us that used to smell like just her now smelling like us. She moaned as I pulsed inside her one last time, her hands still around my neck feebly holding onto me.

"Oh ... wow ..." was about all I could say, and she chuckled, the vibrations of it forcing me from her. "No..." I whined, and she laughed again, patting my back until I pushed up to look at her.

With a mischevious smile, she said "I believe you promised me that I would forget both the time, my name, and the place. I have no idea of the time, but I still know where I am and my name."

I couldn't help it... I laughed. "Which place do you want to forget first? My place, or yours?"

"Mine," she chuckled. "It's closer."

We gathered our things, cleaned up her sofa a bit, and I followed her back to her place in my car.

As soon as we got in the door, I got back to work, until several hours later, we'd christened her door, the living room floor, the dining room table, her bed, and the shower.

We'd both completely lost track of the time until her phone rang out in the kitchen. Peeling herself from the bed, she walked off to answer it, her incredible curves calling me to follow. When I got there, she was talking to Angela, so I decided it was safe to get her back, just a bit, for last night.

Without warning, I pushed her up against her counter and took her from behind, groaning as her walls tightened around me, and chuckling as she bit her hand to stifle a whimper right into the phone. I started pumping into her quickly, keeping hold of one hip as I pressed her into the counter, then didn't bother to stifle my own groan as she bucked back against me.

"What?" she said, almost breathlessly. "No... look... Ange, I've got to go. I've been waiting around for the ... ah... deliveryman and he just got here." I slammed into her hard once again, and she cried out "got to go! bye!" before hanging up and tossing the phone away.

"You ... you're so ... bad ..." she moaned, grinding her hips against mine as I pumped her even harder and faster.

"Hey ... you said you were ... oh, holy Christ, Bones ... tired of my making you ... oh, God ... wait." With a shriek, she came all of a sudden, and my own ripped out of me in response. I braced myself on either side of her against the counter so I wouldn't collapse, panting and practically shaking from the force of my orgasm. Finally, we both stopped shuddering, and with a groan, I pulled out of her. She flipped around quickly, and took me in hand, hopping up on the counter as she stroked me back to attention.

"Mother of God, Bones," I grunted, as she brought me back to life faster than should be humanly possible and I couldn't help but stare in amazement.

"Well," she smirked, sitting further back on the counter and leaning back so her breasts crowned, "what are you waiting for, Booth?"

"Nothing, not anymore," I replied-- the only possible answer as I pulled her to me and we started all over again.


	12. Wanted

**A/N:**

**This is an angst/romance/smut fic I started to write before _Fire in the Ice_, because whatever's going through Brennan's head, I think Booth's assurances to her while they skated would have relieved a lot of the insecurities I've premised this fic on here—as well as a theme that I sometimes feel like I'm harping on. I can't help it, though-- I think the writers make Booth's sarcasm to Brennan verge into meanness sometime, and I'm sure Brennan internalizes it—this was the result.  
**

* * *

**Wanted**

"I still think you should have asked Booth to go with you."

He'd been so damned tired—he'd just meant to sit on the lounge sofa, quietly, for a few minutes and after a cup of coffee before going back to his office. It was easy to crash here at the lab-- Bones always let him sack out on her couch, and the ones up here in the lounge weren't bad either. And the squints knew when to leave a man alone so he could catch a few zzzz's when they were needed. Those jerks at the office always made jokes about '_sleeping on the job_' even though he and Bones closed more cases in a month than five of them combined. Bastards.

He looked at his watch as he rolled on his side. He guessed it was hearing his name that woke him. Where were those voices coming from? Oh, yeah, Angela's office was right underneath. So that must be her talking.

"Angela, please. We've been over this." That was Bones—sounding more tired than annoyed. Well, no wonder, it was a long week and there'd been a long chase at the end before they caught that suspect yesterday. Fortunately, the guy hadn't been armed, so the fact that Bones had taken off on him and gotten all kung fu on his ass meant Booth only had a mild heart attack, rather than the full on one he got the whole time anyone started waving a gun around her.

"Bren, I know. I just… I think you're wrong, okay? And this is the third of these things in a row you've gone stag to." These things? Stag? What were they talking about? He sat up, his brain trying to process the conversation rather than fall back asleep.

"It doesn't matter. Even if I took a date, they'd be bored, and I just don't have the energy to date anymore—not when none of it means anything. Now, can we please finish my hair? The cocktail hour's starting in forty-five minutes." His brain was generating questions more quickly than he could wake up to listen. None of it means anything? What did that mean? When did Bones stop dating?

"I just can't believe you didn't tell anyone, Bren. You've known for a month and you don't say a peep until today? I mean, if I'd known earlier, I'd have gone with you, and the only reason you told me was because you needed help shopping."

"Ange, really. It's not a big deal. You and Roxie have those tickets to LA for the long weekend—I'm not letting you cancel your plans, and I'm sorry I took up your afternoon."

"Honey, they're giving you teacher of the year award. Of course it's a big deal, and I wasn't doing anything that couldn't wait. We'd all be proud of you if you'd just have told us, hell, we'd all have come if you'd let us know."

"Angela. Please. People have other things to do." She sounded so tired, Booth reflected, even as he agreed with Angela-- teacher of the year was a big deal, a very big one.

"Fine. But I still think you should have asked Booth. He would definitely have gone with you."

"Angela."

"Look. I'll make you a deal. I'll shut up after this if you'll just tell me why you didn't at least tell Booth that your students nominated you for teacher of the year and the faculty agreed. It is a big deal, Bren, whether you think so or not. I mean, you two spend so much time together, why wouldn't you tell him?"

There was a long moment, and then Bones spoke. "Booth has other things to occupy his professional time than to listen to me talk about the things I do when we're not working cases, and better things to do with his personal time than squire his socially awkward and emotionally-baggage laden partner to a faculty function. And he's made it clear, multiple times, that he's bored silly by academic discussions—if I told him he'd probably make a '_squint of the year_' joke or something. Nor has he hidden his opinion that my teaching schedule is an imposition when it comes to working the cases."

"Honey." Angela's tone was both sad and reproving. "I know he can be disparaging about the less applied aspects of our work here, but I still think he'd want to know. And you are _not_ awkward or too baggage-laden. We all have baggage, sweetheart."

Bones let out such a bitter-sounding laugh in response to Angela's words that it grabbed him by the nuts and squeezed hard—as if that resigned tone when she talked about the way he talked to her about what he did call her '_squint work_' didn't already twist them into a knot. Angela's '_our work here_' comment also disturbed him—he'd always thought the squints were his team, but clearly they thought otherwise, at least when it came to things not related to a case. Bones' next words like were a stab through the heart.

"Angela. Face it. I am a hopeless screw-up when it comes to dating, I can't say anything outside of a purely academic or applied scientific environment without hurting somebody's feelings, which you and Booth both remind me of often, and as for teaching? Well… I was Zach's teacher. _That_ came out really well—_that_ proved what a good teacher I am. This award is a sham, but I can't really turn it down without raising all kinds of questions I don't want to reflect back upon Zach-- at least I can donate the prize money somewhere. It's a problem—I was going to resign from the faculty at the end of the term and now it will seem ungrateful if I do."

"Bren. Sweetie." Angela's voice was choked and surprised. "You love teaching, and your students love you, you can't quit. And what happened with Zach isn't your fault."

"Angela. I'm going to be late if you don't finish this. Please." Bones had that end-of-discussion tone in her voice, except instead of her usual annoyed tone, she just sounded sad.

"Fine," Angela replied, and then there was no further noise for several moments except some kind of metal clicking.

"Ow," hissed Bones.

"Sorry, did I scorch you?"

"Just a little. I'll be fine."

"I do love it when you wear your hair curly. It's so pretty. What are you going to do with the dress you were going to wear?"

Bones sighed. "I don't know. I have that National Geographic ceremony to go to next week. If the bruises fade enough before then I may be able to wear it. Otherwise, I'll have to buy something new, there's going to be a lot of overlap between this week's function and next. It's too bad, it was pretty, I could have used the ego boost." Bruises? Booth thought. When did she get bruises?

"Sweetie, you look beautiful in this one, too, but you're right that you can't go to one of these things in a strapless dress with fresh creepy killer finger marks on your arms. Do me a favor and try not to chase anyone between now and then? You bruise too easily, Bren."

"Story of my life, Angela." She just sounded so lonely and tired and sad. There she went, ripping his heart out of his chest and she didn't even know he was here.

Booth was torn. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop, and it was clear the women were unaware of his presence or they never would have spoken so frankly about him. If he went downstairs and announced himself and offered himself up as a date, Bones would just think he felt sorry for her. But not doing anything bothered him too.

Why hadn't she said anything to him—about the award, about the fact that the killer'd gotten enough of a grip on her to bruise her, about the fact that she'd stopped dating? Had she really taken what he'd intended to be only joking put-downs so seriously that she wouldn't tell him about something so prestigious because she thought it would bore him? But she _had_ taken him seriously, and he'd hurt her feelings, too. And then pile Zach and wanting to give up on teaching on top of it? When had he wedged his head so far up his ass that he didn't see these things were really bothering her?

Angela's sigh was audible even to Booth. "Honey, I just wish you weren't so lonely."

"Angela— I'll be fine. I've always been alone. You get used to not being wanted. There just isn't someone for everyone out there, however much it's nice to think otherwise." Her voice sounded brittle, and his gut turned to ice as she outright denied what he'd told her in Sweets' office months ago. Months ago, and she still remembered the phrase—and didn't believe it. Didn't believe _him_—didn't get was he was trying to say, probably because he was so mean to her sometimes that she couldn't believe that he not only cared about her but was head over heels. "Oh God," he heard himself whisper.

Angela's voice continued downstairs. "I still think that…"

Bones cut her off. "Ange, I know. But...stop it. Just… stop it. It's hard enough to go to these things and smile and be polite when all I want to do is take a bath and try to forget the last set of bones before the next set shows up. Just… please stop nagging me about Booth. You're wrong. I am his partner, nothing more. I've been working with him for four years now-- if the man wanted me like you think he does, he'd have done something by now. But he hasn't and won't-- he doesn't think about me that way, and in any event, he knows all too well I'm damaged goods. He said for himself he '_does fine_' romantically—I don't want to mess up his weekends and private time just because I'm a boring gawky loser with no sense for relationships who can't even scare up a decent date for a professional function. I am _not_ going to impose on him, not after practically getting him killed. I'm burden enough as it is. "

Her voice cracked on the words '_impose_' and '_burden_,' before she started to speak again, her voice almost resembling her more usual cool, controlled tone—except for the half-strangled tone to it. Booth, meanwhile, felt like he'd been sucker punched and whacked in the back of the head. He wanted her more than anything in the world, and she felt unwanted? He made her feel unwanted?

"I'll finish the rest in the bathroom, you need to get going. Thanks again for your help, Ange. Have a good weekend." There was a sound of heels clacking-- as he peeked his head around the corner of the couch, he could see Bones walking off toward the ladies' in a dark ankle-length evening gown with elbow-length sleeves, a coat and purse over her arm.

"My poor Bren," he heard Angela murmur to herself. "Booth is an idiot."

Booth could only agree.

* * *

He had to wait another twenty minutes before Angela left. Having stayed quiet during the conversation he'd listened to, he could hardly appear now and press Angela for further details, not when she seemed to think that Booth was disparaging of Brennan's other work and maybe the team's. Which gave him more than he wanted to think about. He'd always meant it in a joking manner, but if he was going to play Sweets he would say that he made fun of the squints' academic and research work on things that didn't involve him because he felt intellectually threatened and jealous of their time.

Which was stupid, now that he thought of it. He'd been working with them long enough to have absorbed a lot of the terminology—he'd never be an expert, but nine times out of ten he could follow the conversation these days. And yet, he'd kept up the habit of talking smack about their work and their way of phrasing things. A bad habit, he saw now—disrespectful, too, of people he'd come to think of as friends and not just professional colleagues whose help he needed, hell, depended upon to get his work done. And he _did_ grouse about Bones' teaching schedule, and went "_blah blah blah_" when she started talking about Limbo or other museum cases she worked on—even though she didn't do that when he talked about the other cases he was working on that didn't involve "their" murders. She asked questions, and followed up to see how they were going. For someone who accused his partner of lacking social graces, he'd been pretty boorish himself.

What bothered him more was the way Bones referred to herself. Damaged goods, awkward, gawky, loser, boring? Impose? Burden? And to have stopped dating and not told him about it even after he tried in his stupid, backhanded way to tell her in Sweets' office that _he_ was her "someone for everyone?" He'd played it too close to the vest if what she took out of that conversation was that his "_I do fine_" meant that his private life was none of her business, and that he was completely uninterested in her.

He'd always thought Bones was pretty secure about her sex and personal life—at least the part that had nothing to do with her family-- but clearly he hadn't been paying attention. He knew now that he'd just chosen to ignore how upset she'd been after each boyfriend ended up being a loser or an axe murderer, or sailed off to Bermuda—he was too busy being relieved because it meant she was single again. Because of course he wanted her—and yet was too chicken to actually do anything about it—how sick was that? He hadn't reveled in her misery, but he hadn't done anything more than cursorily to try to make her feel better. She was a stunningly beautiful, brilliant, accomplished woman—who thought she was a loser. And he'd had no small part in making that any better, since he was constantly ridiculing her taste in men.

And now she was feeling insecure about her _teaching_? That was bad, very bad. He couldn't make hide nor hair of half of what the grad students and she were talking about when they were working on something together, but it was clear the kids hung on her every word and that she took very seriously whether the kids were getting what she was trying to tell them. Granted, the kids were pretty damned smart, but he'd seen Bones spend more than an hour just last week showing Wendell and that Nigel-Murray kid something obscure that they'd never seen before, then answering questions seemingly forever—until he'd interrupted her, impatiently, because he needed her to sign something. He'd thought she was mostly feeling better about the Zach thing—although he hadn't asked her about it much, either.

No wonder Bones didn't think he was interested in her, and felt like she'd be imposing on him if she asked him to go with her. He made fun of her dates, showed no respect for her teaching or research pursuits, poked and prodded at her ceaselessly about her own personal life when he wanted to know something and yet paid it no mind when he didn't, and told her nothing about his.

Angela was wrong. He wasn't an idiot. He was an asshole. Ange's quiet packing up noises below, yielding to a phone call to her girlfriend, only confirmed it.

"Hey, Rox, I'm leaving now, I should be there in fifteen minutes." There was a pause and then Angela answered some question.

"Not really, but she insisted she's fine and refused to let me reschedule so I could go with her. Yeah, I didn't know until she needed my help with the dress, and Rox-- she just got this big deal award last week from the Medical Anthropology people for some public health water thing she did in El Salvador while she was there on some dig a few years ago, and again she didn't tell anybody." She listened some more, and then sighed.

"Yeah. There's nothing I can do about it right now. I'll have to work on it when we get back." There was a final pause, and Ange answered tiredly.

"Normally, yeah, I'd just call Booth and dump it in his lap, but I don't know… she's so convinced he doesn't feel like she does, and maybe she's right—I mean, hell, I put the moves on Bren four days after I met her, even though I knew she didn't swing that way. No one in their right mind would wait four years unless they really weren't interested. I don't want her to feel worse, she's so worked up about not saying anything to him because of some line he drew only after he was done shtupping Cam. Maybe I can call Hodgie and get him to offer to squire Bren to that thing next week so she can make those awards for that new grant fund she endowed. Yeah. Says she can't take the time off to travel what with the FBI work the way she used to-- so she's funding other people's research instead. I know. Most people would blow it on La Perla, she does it to endow work she could be doing instead of crime fighting with someone she's eating her heart out for. Alright, fine, I'm out of here. See you soon."

There was a sound of a phone flipping shut, and then he saw Angela walk out. He sat there a moment longer, after she'd flipped the lights off and exited the lab. '_He doesn't feel like she does_?' '_Eating her heart out for_?'

She felt something? He was a willfully blind moron, on top of everything else.

* * *

He couldn't very well show up at this thing in a tux unannounced, so he sat in the truck in the lab garage, debating for long moments what to do next. Well, when in doubt, call Bones, he thought to himself. Not like he didn't do it any other time he felt anything—happy, sad, angry, impatient, whatever—when in need of hearing someone's voice, call Bones.

She picked up on the third ring. He could hear the background noise of her driving.

"Booth, hi," she said, still sounding tired.

"Hey, Bones, what's going on?" He usually was a quick thinker. Right now he wasn't sure what to say.

"I'm just going to a faculty function at the University," she said neutrally.

"You don't sound thrilled," he tried, keeping in mind all the times he'd sarcastically said "_Whatever, Professor_."

"I'm tired, it's mandatory, and I'm wearing too much makeup and too high heels on a Friday night when I'd rather be home with a book."

"Well," he said, scrambling to think of a reason why he would be calling, since he realized now that unless they were working, he tended not to call her on weekends. Why was that? Was he assuming she was out on a date? She never tended to rub her dates in his face, he only found out about them because he was nosy. "I was going to stay in and pick up some Thai for supper, so I was just wondering if you wanted some Mee Krob."

She made a sound that was half sigh, half something else. Exasperation? Frustration? A choked, ragged breath? "Unfortunately, I'll be pretty late."

"Well, you make sure your date has you home before his car turns into a pumpkin."

"I need only worry about my own vehicle being transformed into a pumpkin, Booth. These functions are boring, even for me. I wouldn't inflict them on anyone else."

There she was—calling herself boring and thinking socializing with her was a burden.

"Well, Bones, I find it hard to believe anyone would find your company an affliction," he offered, hoping she'd take him at his word. When was the last time he'd actually complimented her about something that wasn't work-related? A while. London, when he'd said he thought she was special and she looked… incredulous—and then he chickened out about saying anything more? After that clearly completely unsuccessful '_there's someone for everyone_' talk? That was months ago. That ridiculous come on during the China trip didn't even bear mentioning, first because it went right over her head, and second because it wasn't a compliment so much as it was an obnoxious manifestation of his inner sexist pig. Yeah, he'd dope slapped that creepy publisher kid and made her not throw her book out—and boy, did the smile she gave him in response make his stomach do cartwheels, but could he really only come up with three things in what, five months? Boy, the more he thought about it, the bigger an asshole he was.

"You'd be surprised," she said resignedly. Before he could answer, he heard her car stopping and her window lowering as somebody greeted her. "Sorry, Booth, I've arrived at my function and have to go now. Have a nice weekend." She flicked her phone shut before he could say anything more.

She admitted that she didn't have a date when he asked her directly, but when offering information about the reason of the function, she downplayed her own part. She did that. But she would answer a direct question, hell, sometimes even an oblique one. He would have to make a list of things to ask her. And to stop chickening out about asking her.

* * *

He went home and changed, having yet again made no plans for yet another Friday night. Hell, try any weekend night except for when he had Parker or the occasional hockey game tickets. It had been more than a while since he'd been on a date, even as he'd never worked up the courage to ask Bones out on one. No—the only things close to a date he'd been on recently were the ones of Bones' that he crashed.

Boy- how sick was that? And yet she put up with him. Why? The longer he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he was even more of a jackass than the guys she'd been dating—he knew how special she was and he still didn't give her the respect and care she deserved. Instead, he acted like a jealous teenager deprived of the one thing he wants-- he taunted the object of his affection to prove to her that he never wanted her, despite the fact that he was too chicken to make a move.

Suddenly, the thought of letting Bones spend another night thinking he was "just" her partner made him sick to his stomach. He sent her a text that said "_Bringing you Thai anyway, call or text when you are done_." If he just said what he was planning on doing, she would either explicitly argue with him or acquiesce. He hoped she wouldn't argue tonight.

She did, though. An hour later, he got a response that read "_Will be here until 12. Too late. Thx for offer_."

His immediate "_I don't care_" didn't bring a response. Either she'd shut the phone off, or was ignoring him because she was too tired to deal with whatever she thought his intentions were. Well, he wasn't too tired. She'd just have to listen, he wouldn't make her talk.

* * *

Bones sighed a bit when she saw him lounging at her apartment doorway, bags of Thai and a bottle of wine resting on the table in the hall—she'd left right at twelve to make the twenty minute drive back to her apartment from the University. His Bones, always punctual, even when going home alone.

"Booth," she said tiredly, "I told you it would be too late."

"Right, and I said I didn't care and you didn't text me back to tell me not to come." He hefted the bags and watched her as she fished her keys out of her coat, the knee length wool not covering the navy blue silk of the ankle-length skirt or the matching high-heeled shoes she wore.

"Besides, Bones, these University things always have rubber chicken and not enough vegetarian food, you always end up starved afterward, and I can't have my partner wearing herself into a wraith from not enough veggie pad thai."

The edge of her mouth quirked as she opened the door, then stood aside to let him precede her. He deposited the food on the counter turning back as she locked up. She was depositing her purse and phone on the table when he returned to take the coat from her shoulders. He stifled a gasp as he pulled it off and away—the deep navy silk of the dress floated over her curves, following them closely but without clinging until the fabric flowed more widely out at the knees. The elbow length sleeves emphasized her elegant forearms and hands, bare as always of everything but her mother's ring on her right hand. She spun with grace on her heel as he managed to move and hang her coat on the hook near the door, and this time he stopped in his tracks, stifling another gasp as he saw her again.

The deep v neck followed the line of her cleavage almost down to her navel while covering each curve, and her glowing white skin seemed even more luminous against the dark fabric and the cloud of curls Angela created to frame her face and fall to her shoulders. She'd done something shimmery with the makeup so that Bones' already wide eyes looked wider and bluer, her lashes longer and more sooty than they already were, her lips that shiny nude color that just made him ready to cry with the need to kiss her again. She wore no necklace, just the long line of skin from her neck leading down, down to temptation, the wide sweep of the v neck baring the skin over her upper chest almost all the to her shoulders. She wore long sparkling earrings, but that was it for jewelry. She didn't need anything else—the way her skin glowed, her dark hair shone, and her eyes glimmered was more than enough. What was that Byron sonnet, "_She walks in beauty like the night_?" She was midnight sky and pale moon and sparkling stars all at once.

She looked puzzled as he openly stared at her, but shook her head at some thought and turned back toward the food. He mustered his courage and said "You look beautiful, Bones," when he reached her.

She looked at him, startled, and he slapped himself all over again. Sure, telling her father he thought she was beautiful hardly counted. When was the last time he told her she looked nice, much less beautiful, even though that was practically the tail end to every thought he had about her? He realized he was still staring, and that a slight flush was tinging her cheeks. He'd embarrassed her?

"Just a costume," she said self-deprecatingly, looking away to lean on the counter as she pulled off her heels one at a time, wincing a bit as she did so. "Observation of formal social rituals in jeans and a t-shirt wouldn't fly."

"Still," he said, pulling the takeout containers from the bag and setting them out. "Doesn't mean it's not a beautiful costume. Or that you don't look beautiful in it."

Booth watched her from the corner of his eye as he said it and Bones flushed again, saying nothing as she hurriedly picked up one container and snapped open some chopsticks before settling herself into a chair, her feet tucked up under her and her bare toes just peeking out. She'd buried her head in the takeout container, looking straight down as he came over and set down a glass of the sweet German wine that she liked, then took his own seat on the couch. After a few mouthfuls of noodles and a sip of her wine, she asked "Parker tomorrow?" still avoiding his gaze as she shifted again, uncurling her legs and flexing her ankles as she continued to eat.

"No, he's going to see his grandparents through Sunday," he answered, wondering how to begin. He'd brought the food as an excuse to start talking to her, and wasn't hungry at all. She, however, clearly didn't want to talk, and was using the food as an excuse not to do so.

She nodded, saying nothing as she leant forward to pick up her wineglass, looking at him only briefly over the rim as she sipped it, then put it down. She stretched her feet out in front of her then, sighing and closing her eyes as she pointed her toes and rotated her ankles.

"Feet hurt?" he asked, noting the small spots of red where the shoes must have dug into her.

"Formal heels hurt so much more than regular ones, let us say," she said with a twist of her mouth. "But they're necessary, even at these functions, when normally everyone would be wearing clogs and khakis to work."

She closed her eyes, rubbing her fingers over her forehead, and looking sad and exhausted now that she wasn't looking straight at him. He decided he needed to talk.

"Well," he began. "It's kind of a big deal, the reception and dinner for the teacher of the year and other faculty awards, you can't really go in your grubbies."

She looked at him evenly, but said only "It's not that big a deal." She got up to go get some water from the fridge reaching her hands over her head to stretch as she walked. The floating silk defined new parts of her body as he watched her move.

"Why didn't you tell me, Bones? And why'd you go stag? I would've gone with you."

She shook her head, just looking sad. "I'm going to kill Angela."

"Ange didn't say anything to me. The University's website had the press release on there today. I would've gone if I knew," he continued. "Hell, we'd have all gone in on a table."

"That's nice of you to say, Booth, but these functions are tedious and full of politics. You've always said so yourself." Her expression took a far-off, bitter cast, and his heart twisted all over again.

He got up and walked over to her. "Well, maybe I was wrong, or just an asshole to say so, Bones, you ever think of that?"

Her mouth made a bitter moue. "No, Booth, you're usually right about these things. These rituals are just a necessary attendant to participation in social and professional circles where money has come to mean more that merit. They're more trouble than they are worth."

"Bones—you love teaching, why wouldn't you be happy about getting that award? Your students love you, they think you invented sliced bread."

She shook her head and just looked _through_ him as he blocked her into the corner of her counter.

"Apparently they think I invented or at least condoned sliced humans, too, Booth. No, it's time to acknowledge that I have lost any efficacy as a professor and mentor in any way that can be of meaningful use to a student. I would do them more harm than good were I to continue an academic career."

Her expression was utterly bleak. He couldn't help himself from pulling her into a hug, one hand at her back and the other just at the base of her neck. Her response was not what he expected.

Bones just stood there, unmoving. She didn't hug back or push him away. She just didn't do anything—it was like she was incapable of deciding whether to do one thing or the other, or like she'd set herself to endure whatever might happen next. It was almost like the first time he'd hugged her, when she was so uncertain of him—except this time she was waiting for him to pull away, not the reverse.

"Bones," he said softly, still holding her. "I'm really sorry I've been such a jerk. I don't give you enough credit, you know? I kind of feel like a mook around you guys sometimes—I'm not as nice to you as I should be. You're a great teacher, a good friend, a kick-ass partner, and a brilliant and beautiful woman, okay? Don't be so hard on yourself—you're just … wonderful, okay?"

He pulled back to look at her—Bones was still stiff in his arms, her face now flushed red. As soon as he looked at her, she averted her eyes—but the quick flash of the look he caught before she looked down told him she didn't believe him. No wonder—he'd hurt her feelings with words—undoing them with a paltry few words said in her ear wouldn't counter the damage he'd done.

Well, actions spoke louder than words—or might reinforce them. He hoped—desperately so. Moving his hand at her neck to thread his hand through the soft silky curls at the back of her head, he lowered his lips to hers, kissing her gently. "I'm sorry," he repeated as she gazed back at him, confused. He bent forward and down, kissing her forehead and holding her to him for a moment—absent heels, her professional clothes, out of her comfort zone-- she was more small and vulnerable than most people knew—even he forgot it sometimes in the face of her forceful persona, her athletic strength, her long build and generous curves.

Pulling back, he kissed her more deeply, and her lips slowly softened. He completed the kiss, drew back to say "You only deserve all the best things," as the blue of her eyes deepened, then dipped his head to kiss the base of her throat. This time, her hands moved to his hips, coming to rest so tentatively, so ready to let go at the slightest risk of hurt, that his heart twisted all over again. He kissed his way up the fragrant soft skin of her throat, her head falling back into his hand as the mist of her scent surrounded him—she never wore perfume, claiming that it would interfere with her ability to assess decomposition and other relevant clues on the job-- her shampoo and her own personal scent were entrancing, enough to send Booth's head into a spin whenever he got close enough to catch a whiff. Which of course was why he liked helping her on with her coat.

He kissed his way over her jaw to one ear, teasing one lobe gently with the tip of his tongue-- the cool metal of her earring was a sharp contrast to her warm, honeyed flesh. He sucked at the delicate skin just behind her earlobe and a shiver passed through her, her hands flexing on him. "My beautiful Temperance," he said in her ear, then traced the outer curve of that delicate shell with his tongue before resuming his way, kiss-first, over her face.

His lips traveled over her forehead, so often furrowed in thought or concern, then over each eyebrow, quirked in annoyance or humor. He pressed a caress over each temple, the delicate shield over her incredible brain, then pulled away once again to gauge her reaction—this time she looked not confused but surprised, almost wondering as she regarding him in return. Her expression was so often guarded to others, her daytime expression one of calm, stoic competence—and yet so often with him when they were alone, or it was the end of a day, each quirk of her mouth, each widened or narrowed glimmering eye, each trembling chin or set jaw betrayed her innermost thoughts. His heart clenched at her look of her surprise, and the pain of her only believing him now stung him to further action.

"Bones," he said gruffly, before kissing her passionately, his tender explorations of just moments ago now cast aside. He claimed her mouth, slipped his tongue past her lips to rediscover the warm delicious taste of her—the one he'd let himself forget in the daytime, though too often at night he woke from another frustrating dream of doing more than kissing her in her office at Christmas. She trembled slightly, her hands gripping him harder—then tipped her head, slanting her mouth so she could taste his mouth in return.

He didn't know how long they kissed as he pressed her closer, her curves yielding against him. The next time they parted for air, her shaky-voiced "Booth" spurred him to kiss her again.

Instinctively, naturally, as if it were the only possible course, he broke free of her mouth just long enough to stoop and sweep her legs up from under her, then carry her off to her bedroom.

He set her on her feet at the side of her bed, her back to him as he lifted the long curls hiding her neck from him and nuzzled her skin. She leant back into him, sliding her hands over the front of his thighs-- the heat and press of her palms made him already solid erection twinge harder. As he licked his way over her shoulder to the edge of her dress, he dragged off his shoes and kicked them behind him.

Turning then, she regarded him with eyes so deep blue that there was no way to describe the color in words—except perhaps _Temperance, in the bedroom_. He threaded both hands through her hair, clasping her face as he pulled her to him for another deep kiss. Her hands slid, small, hot and dry under his shirt—over his ribs and around to his back, her nails lightly digging into his shoulders.

"I've wanted you so much, so long," Booth murmured into her skin as his hands found the zipper at the back of her dress, the small snicking noise of it coming undone the only sound in her bedroom except from their shallow breaths as she pressed teasing kisses and flicks of her tongue up the side of his neck, the stubble limning his jaw line.

She pushed his shirt up and he raised his arms, pulling it off the rest of the way. Her eyes roved his form, her hands skimming over him lightly as she explored the lines of his torso with her hands and mouth. He traced one finger up the now-bared line of her spine until he reached the base of her neck. Slowly, teasingly, he slipped one finger under the fabric barely covering one shoulder, enjoying the shiver that followed in the wake of his touch.

He was the next to shudder, however, as her lips found and nipped at one nipple, then the other as her hands still flexed and dug into his back. Stepping back, he looked at her a long moment before pushing the dress off her shoulders, then gazed in wonder. The fabric flowed like water over her body, puddling on the floor at her feet-- a dark pedestal for her glowing white form. She was almost like a statue, but she was no hard marble—just warm luminosity. The navy lace boy cut briefs framed her small waist, the wide flare of her hips, the curve of her ribs as her full perfect breasts hung, begging him to touch and caress her. She stood still as he looked at her, head tipped to the side and a look of uncertainty growing as he continued to stand, saying nothing.

"So perfect," he rasped, his voice thick with desire. Her face shifted at his words, her eyes closing in pleasure as he closed the distance between them, their bare chests sealing together as he stroked his hands over her.

She gasped, wobbling, at what he did next. Dropping to his knees in front of her, he sealed his mouth on her stomach, his arms circling her to hold her upright as he tasted each inch of the toned muscle of her stomach, then teasingly ran his tongue under the top line of her panties. Her hands gripped his shoulders instinctively, holding on to him as he nuzzled her through the fabric, the alternating sheer and opaque patterned whorls on her skin not masking her rising sweet musky scent. He sat back on his heels, his hands on her back keeping her in place as he kissed and nibbled the crest of her mound through the lace, increasingly drunk with the need to have more of her.

She trembled again as he kissed her, her knees shaking—he caught her and set her onto the bed, shedding the rest of his clothes and bracing himself over her. Her eyes deepened further, so blue he wondered if it was possible to drown in the sky—to fall so far upwards that he'd never fall back to earth. He didn't care—he'd been lost to her for longer than he'd been willing to admit. The chance to actually become fully lost in her was the only thing he needed any more.

Her hands stroked over him lightly again—up his arms, down his back, down to the back of his thighs before coming around to test the length and heat of him in her hands. He bit back a groan as Bones wrapped one hand around him, a small smile curving the edge of her mouth. Before she could go too much further, because just this slight touch of hers would drive him over the edge, he slid an arm under her, pulling her up even as he lowered himself to her side. As he moved, his shaft slid out of her hand, heavy and aching-- he pulled her closer and bent to taste her breast for the first time even as he let his hand delve into the sweet join of her thighs, pushing the wet lacy fabric aside. Her sharp indrawn breath as he suckled and touched her at the same time made him draw tighter, though he was so hard and tight already that just her breath on him might make him explode. He dragged his fingers across her, testing her satin folds as she parted her legs for him—her silent assent as he filled his mouth with her yielding flesh broke his control.

He'd been starving for her for so long, repressing each improper thought of her during the workday only to have them come roaring back in his dreams— all that longing burst forth like floodwaters over a dam.

Shifting, he tugged her panties down her legs, then kissed and bit his way to her center as she gasped "Booth" at the shift in his mood.

"Have to taste you—now," he growled, settling himself between her legs and tasting her with one long firm stroke of his tongue. She cried aloud as he sealed his mouth on her, wrapping his arms under her legs and pulling her to him as he dove into her heat. He drank from her as she called out his name and whimpered each time he thrust his tongue into her heat, caressing her walls with each firm stroke of his tongue. He worried her clit with his lips and she whimpered, bucking against him, but he held her fast as he continued to taste her. He was truly lost in her heat, her taste, her slick softness as each gasp and whimper drew him onward— except that he was throbbing with need to have her take him inside her.

Her thrashing and moans stopped abruptly—she stiffened and screamed wordlessly, her walls clenching and flooding, her rich taste filling his mouth. He groaned in pleasure, sucking the taste of her release from her as she trembled against him. She whimpered as he continued to lap at her, then sucked at the bud cresting her mound with increasing pressure until she was thrashing again.

"Oh … God … oh … please, Booth," she begged, her voice hoarse with need. Her hands tugged at his hair, but he refused to be moved. He licked and sucked at her as she continued to beg, babbling "No" and "Please" and "More" and "Oh God" and "I can't—" but he kept teasing her, sucking and licking her clitoris firmly only to back off when her breath sobbed in her chest—she was reduced to quivering moans before he bit her lightly, flicking her one last time with the tip of her tongue. She arched so strongly against him that her hips rose off the bed, a keening, wailed "Seeley!" ripped from her throat blasting the last shreds of his control.

He surged upward, holding her hips off the bed as he knelt and sheathed himself in her in one long, forceful stroke—an unwilled shouted "Bones!" erupted from him as the shock of her heat and the tremors still gripping her encompassed him, drew him in further.

Her surprised "Oh!" as he filled her shaded to a moan as he withdrew and returned, his eyes closing at the incredible feel of her taking him in.

He groaned as she arched her hips into his, grinding against him as she whined "more." He opened his eyes to see her flushed, panting, shocked, and full of desire—when he bucked out and pulled her back to him, his hands hard on her hips, her eyes fluttered shut as she moaned, rolling her head on the bed. Her dark hair was tousled, her long earrings falling haphazard, her lips full and red from his kisses. It was an incredible sight, after denying himself for so long.

He dropped her hips, falling forward to brace himself on his arms so he could kiss her. He sank further inside as she hitched her legs up, grabbing him at his shoulders to hold him to her.

It was fevered madness-- he never wanted to stop. Each arch of their bodies together was met by a thrust of his tongue in her mouth or a gasp of his name when their mouths parted for air. Shifting to hold her ever more closely, he slid his arms under her until their chests were sealed together, their sweat and the scent of their joining heavy and hot in the air. Her abandoned response, her clawing hands on him, her unfocussed eyes—he could feel her mounting again, and knew her next release would rip his from him.

"Temperance, look at me," he panted, his hips filling her faster and faster. Her glazed eyes met his but fluttered closed each time he fell into her. "Bones—oh, God," he moaned, feeling her starting to clench. "Oh, God, please Bones, look at me?" She gasped as his body slammed into hers, crying out "Seeley!" as her eyes snapped open. His tension was painful, he needed so much to crash into her and explode—but not until she fully believed him. He grasped the side of her face until she opened her eyes again—"Never doubt … oh, Jesus … that you're wanted …" he gasped, the strain of holding himself back almost crushing. "Never doubt … aaaggghh, oh, holy… that I love you," he groaned, slamming into her as she arched, screaming his given name in as she released, her body shuddering under him. "Always … want you … my Bones …" he managed before a spike of white heat tore through him, blinding him as he exploded inside her-- he roared without words from the most intense orgasm he'd ever had in his life. Through the haze of it, he heard a whimpered "Oh, Booth, I love you" that made him shout all over again.

His hips kept carrying him forward into her even as he was lost, all sense of himself obliterated by her confession. He collapsed with one last jerk into her heat, her sweat-slicked, trembling body beneath him bringing him slowly back to reality.

She whimpered and panted as he pulsed a few last times inside her, her own walls quivering through her aftershocks. They lay there some uncountable time, hearts hammering madly inside chests crushed together, until his own trembling slowed.

Groaning, he moved enough to look again into her eyes—she believed him now, her _Temperance, in the bedroom_ eyes showing him the truth of it. Falling to his side, he gathered her to him, fumbling for her covers as he curled himself over her body. "Always love you," he mumbled, sleep stealing over them both. "Always want you," was the last thing he heard himself say.

* * *

Slanted sunlight struck his eyes, burning red through his lids. Turning his head, he opened his eyes to a far better sight—Bones still lying asleep in the curl of his arms, the dark cloud of her fair framing her peaceful face, a small happy smile on lips tinted pale pink. Her glowing white skin was accented by pink-tinted cheeks, the warmth of their bodies together bringing first-sunrise color to her perfect pale features.

He pressed a soft kiss to her temple, unable now to resist the temptation to touch her. Her eyes fluttered open at the contact, and she turned to regard him, an innocent smile lighting her face.

"Morning," he said softly.

"Hi," she responded, her often solemn features more tender than what he usually saw in the full force of day.

He kissed her, her lips molding to his, a slow morning's tasting as warmth flooded him at her expression. As much as he'd wanted her, he'd always been afraid she didn't want him—but here they were now, together.

Pausing for air, he looked at her a long moment. "You okay?" he asked, tentatively.

"Mmmm," she said, burrowing back into his warmth. "I'm more than okay."

"You want me to get you some breakfast or something?" he offered, nonetheless loathe to leave where he was.

"No," she said, nestling closer. "I just want to stay here for a bit." She wriggled a bit, made a kittenish noise, then laid a whisper-soft kiss on his chest as she tucked her head under his chin.

"I want that too, Bones," he murmured, pulling her closer as a smile tugged at his mouth—holding the woman he wanted and her wanting him holding her.

* * *

_Just in case you're curious as to the reference_...

**_Byron, Sonnet CLXXIII, "She walks in beauty, like the night."_**

SHE walks in beauty, like the night  
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,  
And all that's best of dark and bright  
Meets in her aspect and her eyes;  
Thus mellow'd to that tender light  
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,  
Had half impair'd the nameless grace  
Which waves in every raven tress  
Or softly lightens o'er her face,  
Where thoughts serenely sweet express  
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek and o'er that brow  
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,  
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,  
But tell of days in goodness spent,—  
A mind at peace with all below,  
A heart whose love is innocent.


	13. Needed

**_A/N:_**

**_This is most definitely not a sweet making love fic. It's a first-time between Booth and Brennan that's angry and dirty and more than a little bit kinky. As much as I'd love to see a sweet confession of love between our two heroes, I think maybe it'll all come to fruition in the midst of a furious fight, when they're both scared out of their minds for the other. If you're not comfortable with a fair level of raunch, then please read no further._**

**_Consider this the dirty, rough companion piece to "Wanted." Because when you're "Needed," sometimes finesse goes out the window as you try to express it._**

* * *

**Needed**

You don't know how it deteriorated so quickly-- all your jockeys' intel on the guy said he was just the vic's brother, no basis for motive, and a real stand-up guy. Except when you and Bones went to visit him to see if he had any idea who'd want to off his brother, it turned out all that intel was wrong, and now this stand-up guy was standing up with a gun to his teenaged nephew's throat, the vic's kid, who he'd taken in before the vic showed up dead-- the kid claimed his dad was beating on him, and went to stay with the uncle.

Bones was standing behind you, for once keeping quiet, though you heard the rustle of her drawing her own gun (note to self, just approve the damned concealed carry already so she doesn't get arrested sometime she has to draw without you around). The vic's brother was babbling about some family business deal gone horribly wrong and embezzlement and creditors and losing his shit little house in this scary-ass part of town and the family business and how "that goddamned bastard didn't care if he ran fuckitall into the ground--" all the while his shaking hand held a shaking gun to the kid's head.

"Sir, let the boy go," you heard yourself say. "We can work something out, but don't drag him into it."

You took one tentative step forward, and Bones advanced a half-step behind you.

The guy flicked his gaze between the two of you, but said nothing, just swallowed.

"Come on, sir," you continued. "The boy has nothing to do with his father's misconduct. Why not just let him step out of the way, and we'll all settle this without him looking on. Okay?"

He was panicked, and you could tell he wanted nothing more than to move that gun to himself and swallow the bullet-- not something you really cared about, though you'd never admit it aloud, so long as he let the kid go. Just then though, the kid started whimpering, understandable really, and it set the guy off. He chokeholded the kid harder, and Bones' voice came from behind you.

"You've already hurt the only person who deserved anything," came her voice, calm and even. "Let the boy go, don't hurt him further."

Damn, a small corner of your brain thought. Bones picked up hostage negotiation pretty quick after than near-miss with that sheriff.

"I'll do what I please, it's all gone to hell anyway," the perp said, voice half-strangled. "If I take him out at least my wife gets the company. That's something, isn't it?"

This was bad. Something more had already snapped from whatever drove him to kill the vic in the first place. You spoke again. "Don't take it out any more on your family, sir. Just ... let the boy go, put the gun down, and we'll see what we can do to salvage the situation."

You took another step further, then stopped-- his hand shook even more, and he was sweating like god knows what, since Bones said pigs didn't sweat. You took one step further, and then it was all a slow-motion blur. The hand with the gun moved toward you, you could see it-- then you were shoved from behind to land face down into the floor. There was a shot from in front and behind you _was it only two shots or was it more_ and a sound of the kid yelping as he hit the floor, and the whisking thump of some bullet somewhere in the room taking home in a wall and not someone's side, and two thumps, again from in front and behind you, and a yelp of pain from behind you.

You were facing the perp when you pushed up, and one of Bones' perfect shots decorated his throat. Just like Pam Nunan. Bones didn't like people shooting at you-- she never even tried to shoot to disarm if she could get a kill shot in, not that you would either. In a split second you registered that the kid was fine, which was good because all you could think was _Bones holy shit Bones that perp got a shot off, she only yelped once oh holy fuck what the hell happened just now_. Though you knew it was just another split second, you felt like you swum through molasses as you flipped around to look at her thinking just _oh God, please let her be okay_.

She was lying on the floor, hand clasped over the side of her ribcage. Breathing. Thank God. You didn't recall how you got over there, just that you were kneeling over her and demanding "did he hit you, answer me, Bones" as she gritted her teeth, eyes open, face white.

"Just a bad graze," she said hoarsely, "just that one shot," she continued, and you looked down to see red seeping out from under her hand where she was maintaining pressure on the wound _good girl Bones, of course she'd know what to do_. "I'm fine. Check the boy," she ordered, glaring at you, then said it again as you knelt there paralyzed for the moment. The red spread a little more over the light grey of her shirt, but not too fast, not more than a deep graze like she said-- but you'd be damned if you didn't look for yourself.

You pulled her hand away, tugged her shirt up without ceremony, and confirmed for yourself-- a deep graze, nothing more, but _oh fucking Christ_ look where it was. Right between two ribs halfway up her chest, if she'd been just an inch more to the right it would have punctured a lung and your roles would be reversed from just a few months ago, her gasping in front of you on the floor and her feeling that sucking sensation of a lung falling in on itself and the cold fire of a bullet taking home in her chest as you begged her this time to hold on-- not just the searing fire and throbbing sting in the aftermath of a near miss. And boy, was this a near miss.

You were staring as the wound seeped some more, and glaring at you, Bones tugged her shirt down, clapped her hand over herself, and rolled to her side, breaking eye contact with you.

"James," she said, calling out to the boy. "Are you alright?"

Only then did your paralysis truly leave you, and you could turn around to look at the boy and confirm what your earlier glance already said. He was fine, though wide-eyed and shocked.

"Yeah," he said faintly. "I'm okay. Should I ... uh ... call an ambulance or something?"

Great. The vic's kid, the one who'd just had a gun to his head, was thinking more clearly than you were.

"I got it," you said, standing and then lending Bones a hand up. She took it, groaning, then sat heavily onto the couch as you flipped out your phone and called the mess in.

Just under an hour later the scene was bagged, tagged and dusted-- Bones all patched up and refusing to go to the hospital, too. You could hardly argue with her. She hadn't lost that much blood, all things considered, and the EMTs confirmed what the both of you already knew-- it was a deep graze that didn't even need stitches-- just a big gauze bandage and some ointment.

The wound to your heart though-- that was a different matter entirely. It had been hammering, threatening to bang its way out of your chest by any means necessary, though you'd said nothing more to her than was necessary as the two of you debriefed the team who came to clean up the scene, and to follow her pointing finger to where the bullet that grazed her found its home in a wall. As if there was any question-- the vic's kid was a good witness, really clear with the timing. No one would question anyone's handling of the situation. Just one of those things, you would say and count yourself lucky if it were you and anyone else besides Bones.

Anyone else besides Bones. Who'd shoved you out of the way when that crazy perp took his shot at you, you could tell it was for you, not for Bones. It was _your_ fucking job to shield _her_ from the bullets-- what the hell was she thinking?

_Stifle_, you said to yourself. Don't fight with her in front of the evidence team. Wait 'til they're gone and the two of you are back in the car and you can read her the riot act, let the act of yelling at her burn off some of the hammering terror-- not to mention the adrenaline-fueled hard-on you were trying to fight back with sheer will alone.

Finally, though, it was all over but the crime scene tape over the last lock in the place, so you herded Bones out the door and down into the alley where you'd left the truck only just over an hour ago, except it felt like days-- and your heart was still hammering away in your chest in sheer terror at all that drying brown blood all over her shirt.

Just as you were going to round on her for scaring the life out of you, though, she grabbed you by the collar and slammed you into the side of the perp's house.

"What the hell was that, Booth?" she hissed. "I said I was fine, you should have been checking the boy."

All that terror turned into something else-- raging lust? lustful rage? anguished loving terror? whatever it was, it was messy-- in an instant. "He was fine, Bones, I could tell when I got up." You grabbed her and turned, now pinning her to the wall of the house. "Question is, what the fuck was that stunt you just pulled? You could have been killed!"

You knew you shouldn't be leaning this far into her space-- her lips were so close and oh so, so tempting-- but you were so goddamned angry and scared. Her eyes flashed as she responded.

"So could you, Booth. Why are you the only one who gets to be killed in this partnership? Because that's not very partnerly, Seeley." It was the first time she'd ever called you by just your first name, and she was hissing at you in an alley about whose turn it was to nearly get killed, for fuck's sake. It didn't help your hard-on become any less prominent-- the way her lips curled around your name was about the same way you wanted them curled around your cock.

"Jesus, Bones, yes, it's my fucking _job_ to get shot at," you heard yourself growling. "What the hell were you thinking back there, Temperance?"

By God, two of you could play at the angrily-hissed first name game.

"I was thinking that I'm a hell of a lot more expendable than you are and that your stupid need to jump in the path of every damned bullet needed to be headed off at the pass," she retorted, her cheeks flushed with anger as she pushed at you with her hands. "I'm done here. Are you going to drive me back, or do I need to flag down a cab?" she demanded, pushing at you again from where you damned well weren't budging because you were paralyzed again at her words, an immovable rock.

"Expendable?" you heard yourself shout. "What the fuck does that mean, Temperance?" Of their own will, your hands came off the wall where you'd been caging her in, and grabbed the hands on your chest as she pushed at you. Like you were watching a movie, you saw yourself pin her hands back to the wall so she couldn't leave until you were done finding out what the hell she was thinking. Because in the dark, in an alley, just outside a crime scene was the best place to be having this conversation, especially the way it was going so far.

"It means, Seeley," she hissed, struggling under your hands, "that you have people depending on you to not keep getting killed. You've got your son to take care of, your brother too. It's as simple as that." Something in her eyes said it was more than that, and you started to see that she was as terrified as you were right now. It didn't help calm all of the rage that you were feeling, and it came pouring out in your response.

"Nothing's that simple, Bones," you growled. "Never with you. And if you think I'm going to let you get killed you're insane. I'll do whatever it takes and if you ever try that again, so help me..."

Something broke inside her, you could see it in her face-- she struggled harder under your hands, now desperate to get away where before she'd practically been ready to kill you herself. "I am _not_ going to watch you get killed again. Not again. No-- _nobody_ needs me, you've got people relying on you, if you fucking get killed on me again Booth, so help me... I just can't ... "

Her voice rose as she yelled at you, her eyes wild-- they glittered with that same flickering crazy you'd seen in the mirror whenever anyone tried to take her from you. That was it-- those three words, "_nobody needs me_," that look in her eye just broke you-- was that what she honestly thought-- that she wasn't needed? She was insane.

"Nobody needs you?" you demanded incredulously, letting her hands go only to grab her under her legs and grind her into the wall under your raging erection. "How's that for needing you, Bones? I swear to God, you're the most fucking frustrating woman I've ever known in my life and if you ever got killed, so help me, it would be the end of me ..."

You were panting, and didn't quite know what else to say. All the times you'd thought about declaring your love for her, it certainly hadn't gone down like this. But she made it impossible to say anything more. Her eyes widened in shock, her tongue darting out to moisten her lips as she started to pant in response to your obvious anger and lust. And then, well, your reaction wasn't what you'd wanted, but it sure felt like what you needed.

Your tongue was down her throat, her hands were on your face holding you to her, and she was grinding her wet _so fucking wet_ heat even through her pants into your rock hard erection. You groaned aloud at the taste of her, the feel of her, the sound of her mewling in your mouth as you bucked into her again, making sure she knew exactly how much you needed her. Some part of you was saying _not here, not like this, at least get in the truck_, but the rest of you that waited so goddamned long and still could smell her blood in the air and see it dry on her shirt said _right here right now goddamnit stop waiting_.

Temperance agreed. She was fumbling at your belt buckle, tugging at your shirt, clawing your back under the fabric with those hot little hands of hers even as her mouth never left yours-- she was sucking and biting and gasping as much as you were. You boosted her up just far enough to tear at her pants and _oh fuck_ hot pink lacy underwear even as she arched her back into the wall, helping you push them down and then off and God knew where her shoes got to, but there wasn't _time_, because she'd gotten your belt buckle undone and was pushing your pants down, her very skilled hand pumping your cock like a fourteen year old boy.

You paused to thank God for chin ups as you held her up with one arm while you shoved down your pants, then gasped and thanked God for whatever Bones did to get those thighs of steel of hers, because you were lined up with each other like, well, whatever it was that lined up perfectly, and she was gripping you with those incredible legs as you filled her so hard and fast, such a goddamned perfect fit in her incredible heat, her walls so wet, so silky, so fucking hot.

"Fuck!" she screamed, throwing her head back against the wall of the house as your hips slammed into hers.

Your own grunted "fuck me, Bones" was almost as loud as her scream. Who knew if the evidence team was going to come running? Who the fuck cared? This was all that you needed, right now, right here.

"Don't just stand there, Seeley," she snarled at you, face contorted with anger and fear as you pinned her to the wall, the shock of being inside her stilling you for a moment. "Are you going to fuck me or just hold me in place with your cock?"

Grabbing her around the waist hard with one hand, and yet managing to avoid that bandage that had you desperate all over again, you ripped her blouse open and yes, there was an _oh fuck_ hot pink lacy bra there that needed to come off, _now_.

You boosted her, pulling out and slamming back into her as you pinned her high enough to tug the cups of her bra away from those breasts of hers with your teeth.

"I'll fuck you, Temperance, don't you worry," you heard yourself groan, and then bit down hard on one breast as you started to move.

She squealed as you slammed her into the wall again. Her hands clamped onto your shoulders like little steel vises, her thighs clamping your sides and her walls squeezing your cock _so unfuckingbelievably perfect_ as she thrust her breasts further into your mouth. "Oh, oh, oh," she grunted each time you pounded her into the side of the house, her "ohs" shading to "Booths" and "oh fucks" and "harder" and "faster" as she arched up to meet you.

You bit at her breasts, sucked each nipple hard until she whimpered and moaned, determined to mark her as yours. She didn't think she was needed? You'd fucking brand her with your mouth if it proved it to her-- she was yours, and you needed her to be all yours always, godfuckingdamnit. She'd shifted down at some point so she could suck your neck and claw at your back, those stripes her short nails ripped into you telling you that you were hers, too. She was riding you like a thoroughbred jockey even as you were pistoning into her like the smoothest car engine ever, and it was going to be a race to the finish. Your balls were so tight _so goddamned painfully perfectly tight_ and you were ready to blow because every time you slammed into her, more of her juices ran over you until the only sounds in the alley were the sound of the siding on the house creaking as the two of you hit it, the wet sounds of you coming together at the hips, the sound flesh slamming and slapping and your ragged gasping and cursing.

You sucked at her harder, leaving another purpling mark on that white perfect flesh of hers, then let go to look at her. She wasn't as close as she should be-- she was still more than a little crazy-eyed and a little voice in the back of your brain said _this is what you get for not calling her personally, Bones knocking you out of the way of a bullet, as if you needed more proof of whether she loved you, you jackass_. You needed to fuck that crazy look off her face-- give her that little push over the edge so she could come back to herself, so to say.

You sucked in a breath-- all those times you'd told Bones you didn't want to talk about sex and now your first time was clawing the hell out of each other in an alley in an adrenaline-fueled flurry of fear-- and now you were wondering what might push her over the edge without changing position-- because _hell no_ was your cock going to agree to go anywhere until this was done.

_Hope she likes it a little bit kinky, _you thought to yourself then shifted your grip under her legs to slide one finger into her tight little asshole.

"Oh, fuck, yes," she groaned in relief, her head slamming back into the wall as you speared her again.

"You like that, huh, Bones?" you husked in her ear, pulling your cock out then curling your finger inside her when you filled her wet heat. Jesus, she was incredible.

"Oh, God, oh, fuck, oh Jesus Christ" she moaned, writhing as you started to pump her with your hand, her eyes closing and her head lolling back and forth against the cheap aluminum siding, now probably permanently dented to commemorate the first place the two of you went at it in rage and terror and lust.

"Don't ... you ... do ... that ... again ... Temperance ..." you demanded, each word punctuated by a stroke of your cock and your hand as she grunted and tightened around you with each harder thrust-- not that you expected an answer, but you had to ask anyway.

"Oh ... fuck ... Bones ..." you groaned as your balls tried to climb out of your throat. She was looking way less crazy-eyed and way closer to coming but you were going still going to beat her if you didn't do something-- you'd be damned if she didn't come first. Ladies always came first.

That second finger had her arching against you, wailing "Yes! Fuck! Seeley!" at the top of her lungs-- but even as she was screaming, she started to tighten around you.

"Love ... you ... so ... fucking ... much ..." you managed to grunt, that last pump of your fingers in time with your words and the strokes of your cock sending her over the edge. Every muscle in her body clamped tight with tension as she screamed, writhing-- her seemingly endless clenching response ripped your orgasm from you like no one else ever had as she keened her release and whimpered "oh ... fuck ... Seeley ... love ..." into your shoulder. If you hadn't already come so hard there might be another dent in the wall under the two of you you'd have come all over again.

Your weight pinned her to the wall and your hands gripped her hard underneath as she sagged, trembling, trying to hold on to you as you came back to yourself.

"Oh my God," you wheezed, practically ready to pass out and drop her-- which you couldn't very well do, the ground was really gross in this alley.

She just trembled against you, moaning "oh, Booth, no" when you withdrew, then tried to brace her so you didn't drop her but could also get your damned pants up and get you both out of this alley.

"Hold on, will you," you gasped, "gotta get us back in the truck," you continued. With a mewl, she wrapped her hands around your neck and pulled upwards, her eyes closed and face screwed up with effort. Goddamn but she was sexy. You tightened all over again, just watching her try to do what you said.

Pants up and fumbled as closed as they needed to be for the purposes of finding your wallet and keys, you looked down and around. God knows where the hell all her clothes went-- you could have sworn you'd just dragged them down off her, but there was no sign of her pants or shoes anywhere.

"Ohhhhh," she groaned, opening her eyes, her voice rasping as she watched you survey the gungy ground of the alley. "I left my purse in the truck, a coverall too-- I'm not crawling around in the muck. Let's just go..." she continued, then whimpered a bit as you jostled her up a bit, then turned and stumbled your way to the truck.

She whimpered and "oofed," when you slammed her into the side of the truck on the passenger side so you could work one hand free to key the remote.

"Sorry," you mumbled, hands shaking a bit now that the adrenaline was finally wearing off.

"S'okay," she said, eyes glazed over.

The lock finally clicked, and with a groan, you heaved open her door with one hand, then boosted her up and into her seat. Thank god for leather seats, you thought to yourself, then hoped to God no squints ever went over it with a blacklight, given the dripping and bloody condition you both were in-- God knew what they'd conclude from the forensic evidence of your alleyway fucking.

"Oh, God," you gasped, one hand braced on the truck as she flopped back a bit into her seat, chest heaving and flushed, marked with the brand of your mouth. You hardened all over again.

"Wow ..." Bones breathed. "Holy ... wow."

You couldn't help the laugh that escaped you. The first time you hear Bones say the word _holy_ and she applies it to this. Of course, she beat you too it, because "_oh, holy fuck_," was one of the things you sure were thinking-- right after_ when can we do that again_?

"Come on, Booth," she wheezed, sitting forward to poke you where you leaned on the doorframe, practically giggling. "You can shower at my place."

"Only if you are," you said, meeting her eyes and wondering how this would change things.

"Couldn't stop me," she said, grabbing you by your shirt collar and pulling you forward. "Need you too much to let you out of my sight," she rasped, then bit the side of your neck.

Surging forward and into the truck, you slammed the door shut behind you and pulled her into the back, before showing her all over again how much you needed her-- and she needed you.


	14. Realignment

**_A re-imagined end scene to Princess and the Pear. Self-pitying Brennan. Predatory Booth. And, well, it __is M-rated and smutty. Enjoy.

* * *

  
_**

**Realignment**

You could feel the alignment in his back settle back into place as you pulled him upright, the slight pops of the intervertebral spaces as the subluxations relaxed. What a relief-- you'd been beating yourself up inside that you'd hurt him further-- and still did. Which is why when Agent Perotta showed up, looking lovely and carrying homemade food under her arm, while Booth stiffened a bit under your hands-- well, you knew when you weren't wanted. The way her eyes widened-- she hadn't expected you there. The way Booth stiffened, and the way he called "_It's open_!" as though he was expecting someone who didn't have a key-- well, you knew when to leave.

Perhaps you even managed not to sound like a babbling idiot as you excused yourself and descended his stairs and walked back to your car as quickly as possible, your cheeks burning with shame, your throat closed tight over the sensation of jealousy, your eyes pricked with embarrassment and hurt as you recalled his words of just under a month ago when he said "_Forget about Agent Perotta, okay, Bones_?"

How could you forget about Agent Perotta? And how could you have read more into his statement about her beyond his assuring you, insecure thing that you were, that you wouldn't have to work with another agent, as you'd so needily asked. You could hardly expect him to have been promising that he wouldn't date her. After all, what alpha-male wouldn't? The woman was competent, lovely and caring enough to make something homemade for Booth when you, the non-domestic awkward loser that you were kept bringing him takeout. At least you could have taken the time to make him some macaroni and cheese, he said that he'd liked it, and after all you were the one who hurt him worse in the first place. But no, you couldn't be that forethoughtful-- you weren't kind or domestic or caring. Or blonde. No wonder Booth had been expecting someone who would better take care of him.

Not that you could take care of him at all. You never should have adjusted him yesterday-- if he'd insisted on it regardless, you should have made sure the muscles were warmer before you attempted it. You knew better than to adjust someone still stiff from just waking and not having warmed up the musculature by moving around-- but you let those puppy dog eyes and that smile of his overcome your better judgment. One more way you were a failure. Even in the safety of his apartment you still allowed him to get hurt, hell, you were the one who actually hurt him. Like just two weeks ago-- like six months ago-- like so much of your partnership.

You'd been the cause of his being hurt. You'd lied to Agent Perotta, as you lied to Booth, each time you protested his over-protectiveness, tried to convince him and yourself that you were capable of guarding your own safety. But he never believed you, and he kept getting hurt. Your mind played through the scenarios. Him jumping in front of that bullet, to protect you. Him rushing out the door to your ridiculous awards ceremony, when the only thing that really mattered was that he was hurt, might not have come back this time-- his son wouldn't have nearly lost him. You couldn't even allow yourself to think what your own selfish feelings would be if you lost him again. You had to keep concentrating not on what you needed and wanted from him, but what he needed. He needed to stop getting hurt, trying to rescue you from your own reckless foolishness. Kenton, your fault. Pam Nunan, your fault. Everyone who shot at him when you two were working a case, your fault. The Gravedigger-- doubly your fault, for not working the case harder, and for not insisting on picking him up at his place so they wouldn't have had the chance to take him. He needed to stop getting hurt, and you needed to make sure that he got what he needed and what he deserved. You sure didn't deserve him-- no matter that you felt off-kilter, unbalanced, unfit, completely out of alignment with the rest of the universe when he was "dead," the first time, and this time with the possibility that you might not find him in time after the Gravedigger took him. Your sense of completeness didn't matter-- it was keeping him happy and safe that was relevant.

What he deserved was a perky, domestic, self-sufficient, intelligent blonde who wasn't so proud or so twisted in her own need to prove she didn't need anything that instead she ended up hurting the one person who mattered more than anything else. You had to step aside, step back, hold back, let him go, stay out of his way and the field if it would keep him safe-- you were a danger, and as much as you would ache at the loss of the chance to be out there and the excitement of the case outside the lab-- well, it hadn't worked out. He kept getting hurt, and it was your fault.

You let yourself in to your place, set your things down, tried to ignore the bottle of wine inviting you to have one glass too many as it sat out on your counter. Changed into formfitting yoga pants and a sweatshirt. It was early-- you could order supper, since of course you had no food in the house. You couldn't even feed yourself, much less him. You were a fool to think otherwise, to entertain carefully stifled thoughts about being with him not just sexually but in far more involved ways. Living with him. Squabbling in the grocery store. All the domestic things you'd never been good at, as your long trail of failed cohabitations attested. Who were you kidding in any event-- Booth was not a cohabitation guy. He was a chivalrous romantic-- you were incapable of fully appreciating his gestures, much less reciprocating and acquiescing to any perfectly normal interest in the nuclear family ideal. Not that he had any interest in you, but the fact remained-- even if he was, you were no match for him.

You were wandering around your apartment aimlessly, you realized. You should go out, get groceries, pay more attention to taking care of yourself so Booth didn't feel burdened, wasn't distracted by the need to make you pay enough attention to things that normal people had no trouble dealing with. You needed to find a way to ease yourself back into the lab without attracting Booth's attention that something had changed. If you did it slowly enough, maybe he wouldn't notice until after he and Agent Perotta were fully involved and he had her to balnce him out in the field. At that point, you could suggest that Perotta made a better partner than you, and you could stop putting Booth in danger and stay in the lab where no one would get hurt.

Yes-- you'd decided. That was what you should do-- what Booth needed you to do for his own safety. It would hurt more than when he was dead, because you would still see him sometimes, and know he was with someone else, and that you'd failed to keep him safe or take care of him-- but it wouldn't matter if he was happy and some woman who wouldn't put him in danger met his various needs-- ones you couldn't possibly meet, cold freak that you were.

* * *

About two hours later, your grocery cart half full of what Booth would call rabbit food, your phone buzzed. You were more than surprised to feel its vibration in its clip on your hip. It was Friday night-- no one should be calling you. Angela and Roxie were away for the weekend. Your father was visiting Russ and the girls-- hah, another way you weren't normal, you'd turned down a chance to spend time with the family you'd so desperately missed for so long.

It was a text, not a call.

"_Tripped on table, hurts like hell. SB_."

_What the hell was Agent Perotta thinking, leaving him alone in a medicated and non-optimal physical state when his balance was off, his normally excellent reflexes affected_? That was your first thought. Your second thought as you abandoned your cart and headed out to your car, texting "_Be there soon, stay put_" as you jogged, was that you were glad you had only non-perishables in your cart. You would have felt badly about abandoning frozen and refrigerated items in a cart in the midst of the aisle. _Screw perishables_ was your third thought. Booth was hurt and he needed your help.

You managed to beat every red light between the store and his apartment. He'd definitely never let you drive if he saw how you were driving right now. Fortunately there was a space right in front and you jogged up the stairs, rushing so you wouldn't leave him lying in pain on the floor or wherever he was a moment longer than necessary. You let yourself in with a fumbling jangle of keys, then hastily locked up behind you.

"Booth?" you called, rounding the door from the front entrance to the kitchen, the shortest way to the living room. But you found yourself suddenly caged between him and the wall, and a look on his face you hadn't quite seen before.

"Well," he said huskily, "glad to know _that_ worked, at least." His eyes were glinting, and he seemed to be standing normally. His posture wasn't canted at all, and he had his arms raised and braced at the height of your shoulders-- something he couldn't have done if your adjustment was no longer taking. His expression was also fully focused-- the Vicodin seemed to have burned off.

Booth was leaning right into your space-- you could feel your mouth dry, your pulse beat harder, your respirations begin to quicken-- all those damned signs of arousal that were your body's unconscious response to someone you loved. Hah. As if admitting that he'd been right and there was such a thing would keep him safe.

"What? You said you were hurt," you managed to stammer.

He cocked his head at you, those damned eyes that saw through you pinning you in place, perfectly formed biceps and triceps and forearms on either side of you completely unnecessary. "And you said you had someplace to be, but you're all decked out in your grubbies and with all your jewelry and makeup off. Couldn't have been anyplace fancy if you did, in fact, have someplace to be."

"Why does it matter what I was doing, Booth? And should you really be up, aren't you still on Vicodin?" You hoped your voice sounded more quelling and standoffish than you felt, which was pretty damned needy right now.

"Nope-- took my last one more than four hours ago, and answer the question. Why'd you book off like that, Bones?" he asked, those puppy dog brown eyes of his now darker, and fiercely curious.

"Like I said," you tried. "I had someplace to be." Boy, that was feeble.

"And now you don't?" he asked, not fooled for a moment.

"They canceled," you bluffed.

"You're a very bad liar," he said, not moving at all. "So. Why'd you book off like that, Bones?" Boy, did you hate him right now. Not that you hated him, no, you loved him even as you would still say aloud that you didn't believe in love, but still-- it wasn't at all fair for him to trap you between the wall and his very attractive self, especially since it had been clearly a ploy to make you come back just so he could argue with you. Well, you weren't very well going to say "_I was jealous of Miss Blonde FBI Homemaker 2009 and decided I'd better leave before I confirmed that you were expecting her_."

Well, time for one last bluff before his proximity rendered you utterly weak-kneed. "You're one to accuse me of lying. Why did you say you'd tripped when you hadn't?"

His eyes narrowed. Hah. You had him for a moment, at least. And he was fine-- and now you were annoyed by whatever he wanted to bug you emotionally about. Tonight, you just didn't have patience for it-- despite the fact that over the years you'd almost become used to his poking and prodding.

It was time to make an exit. You crouched quickly, ducked out under his arms, and said over your shoulder "Call if you really need something, but I'm not responding to a text the next time, Booth."

You'd made it to the door and were undoing the deadbolt when he came up behind you and spun you around again, quickly and firmly pushing you back into the door, his hands on your shoulders. "I thought we were over this thing where you run away from stuff, Bones," he said, his voice almost conversational. Except he didn't usually have some variant on this conversation while standing less than a foot away from you with his hands on you and that particular rasp in his voice.

"I wasn't running from anything," you said. "I had someplace to be and you had company," you said, steeling yourself.

His eyes narrowed again. "Yeah, I did have company-- _you_, until Perotta showed up with her chili, at which point you developed these mysterious other plans that you didn't mention when you were still bugging me about my x-rays. Perotta booked out of here right after you did, which I've got to say is a first for me-- I've had one woman walk out on me in a night, but never two."

You were stuck for a response now, and you thought furiously. Normally your brain was more than quick with a response-- Booth spurred the competitor in you, and you did love the fact that the two of you could give any screwball comedy team a run for their money with your banter. But ...

"You bite your lip when you're trying to think of something to say," Booth said while you were trying to think, a serious look on his face as his darkening eyes glinted at you. "You also do it when you _really_ don't like something that's happening but you can't quite figure out how to get out of it."

You stilled as you realized that yes, you _had_ drawn your lower lip between your teeth. Shit. Now how were you supposed to respond? You really did hate him right now-- hated feeling so emotionally naked around him.

"It's really cute, even sexy, when it's _not_ because you're trying to run away from me," Booth said. "Then, it's just aggravating."

"Booth, I ...." You weren't really sure what you were going to say next-- just that whatever response you might have come up with became moot, because Booth all of a sudden was sucking the skin at the base of your throat. Your knees wobbled as you pushed your back into the door so you wouldn't fall down.

"I ... told ... you ... not ... to ... worry ... about ... Perotta, didn't ... I ..." he said, his voice low as he spoke between hot, sucking kisses laid up your neck to your ear, where he breathed "Bones" in such a low, growling tone that not only did your knees wobble again, but a shocking jolt of tension speared you from your core. He sucked your earlobe into his mouth, nipping sharply enough to make you inhale with surprise.

You put your hands on his chest, started pushing. "Booth, this is a very ..."

"... long overdue idea ..." he murmured, his voice still low and growly, his hot breath tickling your ear. "Not a bad idea at all," he breathed, then started sucking his way over your jawline.

Instinctively, you bared your throat to the hot, supple lips exploring your skin, the firm press of his tongue making every nerve tingle. You couldn't keep your eyes open under the onslaught of sensation, but did manage to gasp out "I can't-- if you get ..."

One of Booth's hands twined itself in the hair at your nape, then pulled your head back further as he licked his way down the front of your throat with firm, even strokes.

"I'm a cop, Bones, I'm ..." he paused to nip sharply at the base of your throat again. An involuntary mewl escaped your throat as he spoke over you to say "always going to get shot at ..." before he paused long enough to suck hard on your skin. There would be a mark in the morning-- then he completed his sentence, "whoever I work with. But it's going be you, no matter what."

His other hand on your shoulder was now grasping your hip, his strong fingers kneading the flesh of your rear as he pushed you further back into the door. Somehow, the hands you'd put on his chest to push him away were now digging into his shoulders as you held on for dear life.

"But ... no ..." you gasped weakly, as he started to nip his way up the other side of your throat. "You don't ..."

"I don't want some blonde twinkie with a gun," he breathed in your ear, another thigh-clenching jolt passing through you, his words setting every nerve not already afire into full flame. "Brunette contrary geniuses are _way_ more my style. Like you said, Bones, you're here to help me evolve." That last word was said in such a low, primitive growl that the vibration of his voice traveled straight to your clitoris-- you were aching and throbbing so quickly it was all you could do not to cry out.

Usually you could muster some comeback-- it was impossible with his lips and hands on you. All you could do right now was gasp and flutter your eyes and turn into his mouth so he could keep doing what the two of you really shouldn't be doing.

"Booth," you whispered so weakly you couldn't believe it was you making that whimpering sound, "I just put you in more ..."

"Dangerously sexy," he whispered. Your knees actually buckled this time, his hand on your hip grabbing you as he leaned in. He pushed his knee in between your trembling legs to support you. His hand at your hip let go as he unzipped the front of your sweatshirt, his hot hands on you now-- spanning your waist, teasing his way over your ribcage, calloused firm fingers brushing over each inch of skin.

"Oh ... God," you moaned, as he cupped covered your increasingly heavy breasts with his hands, then kneaded your tingling flesh.

He stopped long enough to tug your sweatshirt down off your arms before returning his hands to your breasts, all the while kissing and nipping his way over your collarbones as his fingers and thumbs manipulated the rough lace of your bra so skillfully that your nipples were instantly aching for more, your back arching as you pressed yourself into his hands.

"The way I see it, Bones," he husked, in between each press of his mouth, "if I'd just done this right out of the gate" and you actually moaned as his thumbs pressed over your nipples again, "then we'd have been too busy doing this..." he continued, pushing his knee further up until your aching wet heat was pressed flush against the soft fabric of his sweatpants, "to get shot at or kidnapped or whatever." He pushed his leg into you further, the friction against the lace of your underwear making you so tense you were practically ready to come right here against his door.

His skillful hands on you paused long enough for him to let go with one hand and take your chin firmly in his hands, his long fingers spanning your jaw as he brought you around to look at him. "You can't run, Bones, I'll just follow..." he said, his eyes and voice holding a promise so deep you could drown in it-- would drown in it, could already feel it pulling you under. Without thinking, your lower lip found its way between your teeth again, and his expression shifted even as your chest heaved with confusion and need. What was he _doing_ to you? You did not get all weak-kneed when some male kissed you-- but this wasn't _some_ male, this was _the_ male, this was _Booth_. Your spine failed to keep you upright—your bones failed to hold you together. His heat was making you fall apart utterly.

"You're doing that lip thing again, trying to think your way out of this," he said, his hand on your jaw making it impossible to look away. "I'm going to have to take it away from you, Temperance."

That was the end of your resistance, as if his saying your first name that way wouldn't have done it all on its own-- not that your trembling legs, gasped mewling voice and hands gripping his arms were much resistance at all-- but he was kissing you so fiercely that you could never kiss anyone else again as he sucked your lower lip into his mouth, nipping you gently.

Your lips parted, mouth opened, tongue thrust out to meet his, and then he held you at nape and waist as his heat bore into you and your hands made their way to his neck, grasping and holding him to you. His mouth slanted on yours as he growled into your mouth, his hot breath mingling with yours as you rediscovered his taste. How could you have even tried to forget the feel of his mouth on yours, the talented strokes of his tongue over your cheeks, the way he somehow sucked and nipped and caressed all at once? You melted, boneless, clasping him tighter just so you wouldn't slide to the floor.

He tasted you thoroughly as you grabbed him harder-- if you were going to drown, you might as well inhale deeply. You heard yourself moaning and gasping as you each parted for breath in between nerve-jolting kisses, but he was growling and groaning your name as he panted next to your ear, his hands holding you flush to his hips as he ground every hard, thick, prominent inch of his erection against your thigh while he rubbed his knee back and forth over your heat. As if your knees weren't already jelly.

At some point you were dimly aware he'd spun you and was backing you slowly past the obstacles of his kitchen and living room-- pausing occasionally to press you back into the wall while you grabbed him by the hips, pulled him tightly to you as you ground up against him. After unclasping and discarding your bra, he grunted a gratifying "unbelievable" before he pushed your breasts up and together, his thumbs teasing your nipples as he buried his face in your chest. Your head hit the wall as you arched into him, his hot mouth and teeth sucking and nipping the sensitive mounds as you tugged his shirt up his back, scratching your nails over him as the fabric yielded to flesh.

"Off," you gasped, tugging his shirt up further until he stopped his assault on your breasts long enough to let you pull the faded, soft shirt over his perfectly sculpted deltoids. He pulled you away from the wall long enough to back you through the doorway, across the sharp diagonal to his bedroom, and into the door frame.

At some point you'd lost your sneakers-- he'd been barefoot to begin with-- and as he tugged at the waist of your pants, peeling them down over your hips, you untied the drawstring of his sweats, their low-slung waist as they clung to his hips and defined his firm buttocks from earlier no longer taunting, but inviting, no, _demanding_ you touch him. He half bent to pull your pants further from you, mouth buried again in your cleavage, when you pushed him back into the wall.

"Don't bend," you said, hand flat on his abdomen as you leant forward enough to tug the form-fitting fabric down and away, tossing your socks after them. "You throw out your back again and I will _really_ hurt you," you said, your voice thick with need.

He didn't say anything as he pressed you back into the frame, shoving his own pants over his hips, the loose fabric sliding down as he ground up against you and kicked them away.

The heat of his body pressed against yours was shocking, and your knees buckled again as his hard length against the thin, soaking wet fabric of your underwear drew a long gasping mewl of desire from your throat. His hands clamped on your hips, he backed himself toward his bed-- the next thing you knew his fingers were exploring your heat, the fabric covering your core pushed aside as first one then two of his far-too-talented fingers found you wet and ready for him. You moaned, felt yourself falling, found yourself somehow straddling him on his bed though you had no memory of him pulling you forward or of bracing yourself on your arms.

He didn't smirk or grin wolfishly at you. Instead his face was utterly serious as he looked up at you, then started twisting his fingers inside you. "Oh ..." you moaned, throwing your head back as his fingers pumped slowly in you, his palm covering the crest of your mound and rubbing you firmly. He kept up the exquisite torture as you gave up any pretense of control over your response to his hands on you-- you'd wanted him for too long to try to convince yourself now that this was just going to be good sex. You started to groan in complaint as his hand left your heat-- but your whine turned to a shocked moan as he quickly and sharply tore your underwear from you, the fabric tossed aside as he tugged you down to his mouth.

You were glad for the chance not just to kiss him again, but to brace your forearms on the bed-- you were trembling violently and weren't sure how much longer you could straddle him under your own muscle control. His hand at your neck pulled you the rest of the way to his mouth, and you threaded your fingers through his thick hair-- softer than you thought it would be. You were set to nestle your core over his hard length, to slide over him with your slick heat until he was as throbbing and needy as you felt-- but he had other ideas, and the hand at your hip pushed you up quickly, his hand gripping and stroking and rubbing your cleft as your mouths melded together.

It was only the strength of his arm crossing your stomach, his fingers in your center and his thumb stroking your burning bundle of nerves as he pushed upwards against you that kept you from completely collapsing. You'd long since ceased being able to breathe while he kissed you, and reluctantly tore your lips from his so you could pant and whimper and whine into the bed. Your breasts were hot and heavy, pressed to his chest, his own heavy breathing alongside your ear increasingly loud.

You could feel yourself building and clenching as you ground yourself into his fingers-- small panting mewls escaped each time his thumb bore down on your clitoris. "Such a sexy little kitten noise," he rumbled. "You going to meow for me, baby?"

You threw your head back and screamed, back arching and hips thrusting against those heated fingers as one last twisting spread in your needy core and pass of his thumb over your clitoris released a climax so forceful that you were nothing but quivering, fiery nerve endings-- tingling and twitching as you came back to yourself to find you'd collapsed, sweat sealing you to his body.

"Mmm... dangerously sexy, definitely," he rumbled, hitching himself to the side-- and you, of necessity, since it would take some moments before you regained any muscle control. His arm was wrapped tightly over your waist, your wet heat throbbing against him as he lay firmly nestled along the length of your cleft. He was sucking at the side of your neck, nibbling his way toward your shoulder, his hot mouth warring for attention with the aftershocks still shimmering through you.

"Oh ... Booth ..." you mumbled into the bed, dimly aware that he was reaching for something alongside the bed, most likely a condom.

"You like that, hmm?"

A low moan was all that escaped you as he pushed his hand between you again, pushing you up and holding you there as you trembled, face buried still in the bed. You somehow managed to lever yourself back up onto your forearms, but you still couldn't open your eyes from the force of your climax. He laughed and pushed you up further, seeming to accomplish his task. One hand at your hip, one hand at your nape, he pulled you forward and down to kiss you again, his tongue tangling with yours. Panting, you both parted as his hand moved to position himself at your entrance. You stared at him, nodding-- you weren't going to run again-- then stroked down to meet him even as he pushed up a bit off the bed to bury himself in your hilt.

You groaned at the sensation of incredible fullness, the way your bodies aligned perfectly, one fitting unquestionably into the other, but as you looked down at him, you could see he was as shocked at the feeling of your coming together as you were. "Oh ... holy ..." he moaned, his hands on you flexing.

"You like that, hmm," you managed to gasp, and his laughter rumbled in his chest.

"Yeah," he growled, pushing you up and away before pulling you hard back to him, prompting another deep moan from you, "I do."

You braced your hands on his chest as you sat back and started a rhythm, his hands at your waist firm and urging you on. Each time your hips met as you took him in to fill you again, you felt a jolt shudder straight through you. Forget about good sex-- this was incredible, the best you'd ever had. You were concentrating on drawing it out and not thrusting onto him too hard-- you didn't weigh that much, but you didn't want to strain his back, especially now. He'd brought his knees up behind you and was using the strength of his legs to push up into you as you continued to take him in-- "so goddamned beautiful," he growled as he let go with one hand to fondle your breasts.

He was watching you avidly, his eyes displaying pure male appreciation as you straddled him-- his eyes were dark with desire as he caressed and squeezed your nipples, making you moan as you settled onto him again, grinding your hips into his. You squeezed him with your walls as you picked up the pace, your hands seeming tiny across the expanse of his chest, his pectorals and arms flexing as he pulled you onto him. His long heated fingers caressing your breasts and squeezing and pulling your nipples were mesmerizing, and you clenched in anticipation before he touched you again.

You were almost impossibly tense, your need for release stronger than any prior experience. You began to lose the rhythm you'd set as you tried to take him in faster-- but he took over, gripping your hips in his hands and pushing you up only enough so he could start stroking into you even more quickly. You moaned his name, an "Oh ... so close ... Seeley ..." coming from you despite the fact that you never said his first name out loud-- it was a night for a lot of firsts, you thought to yourself-- right before you lost control of your thoughts altogether.

"That's right, baby," he grunted, a satisfied grin on his face, "Seeley knows what you want." With that, he let go of one hip to pinch your clitoris between two fingers, then stroked you quickly with his thumb. You screamed-- arched-- clenched-- flooded-- totally shattered until you came back to yourself, collapsed onto his chest with your face buried in his shoulder.

He'd shifted, pulling you forward, and now was thrusting slowly inside you, short firm thrusts that filled you completely as your walls still clenched around him. He was sucking your neck again, and a small corner of your mind laughed and reminded you that you should have known that his alpha-male tendencies would including leaving hickeys and other marks of possession all over your body.

"Oh," you mumbled, gasping into the side of his neck. Booth's hot, musky, utterly masculine scent filled your nose as you tried to regain some control over your body-- his chest rumbled with laughter as you let out a wheeze. Pushing up after finding that yes, your arms were still attached and weren't completely elastic, you looked down at him. "Wow," you wheezed, laughing, then gasped as he thrust more firmly inside you. "C'mere," he said, tugging your head down to kiss you as one hand remained at your hip while he continued to stroke into you.

Your lips gladly met his, though you'd never been much for kissing before—but Booth made it impossible for it not to be part of the whole experience, and you explored his mouth languidly as you found a rhythm to thrust back to meet him, your chests still sealed together as your bodies moved in perfect parallel. Your rolled your hips against his as his short thrusts didn't vary in speed or in force-- but the pressure of your breasts against him, the friction of your nipples and flesh sliding against him as your heat kept meeting his had you slowly building again. Your tongue tangled with his, the two of you taking turns sucking and nipping at the other-- it was almost painful to stop kissing long enough to breathe. Your hands found their way under his neck, your fingers threading the hair at the back of his head as you continued to kiss and his length continued to fill you and stretch you.

A firmer, longer thrust as you were panting for air forced a gasped "Booth" from you, so he did it again. You moaned this time, and he shifted, grabbing your knees and pulling them forward until you were totally cradled over his torso. His hands returned to your hips to hold you in place as he shifted one last time, then started pumping himself into you so firmly that your head fell forward into the join of his shoulder and neck. He turned his head, bit your earlobe, then started suckling as you started to quiver with tension. You whimpered when he picked up the pace yet again, then shuddered as another bolt of sensation thrust straight to your clitoris-- this time from his words, rasped in your ear.

"You can't run, Bones. I'll find you... always will." His own voice was rough, his breathing less even, and you were at least glad that he seemed to be starting to be affected by your coming together, because you honestly weren't sure how much more you could take. His words weren't a threat-- they were a promise, but instead of panicking like you probably should, your nipples and clitoris tingled with pleasure, your walls clenched in expectation and need. His next sheathing thrust to the end of your walls brought a mewl to your lips like the one he'd called sexy before, so he repeated the motion, his hands firm on your hips.

"Not going to," you moaned when he started to bite at your neck.

"Good," he groaned, further speeding his thrusts. "Hate ... to ... stop ... this ... long enough ... to put on ... sneakers ... and pants." With his next thrust, he ground his hips against yours, and you bucked against him in response.

"Aaahhh," you called, the sensation of him literally screwing you unbelievable. "Oh ... God," you moaned as he bucked out and then returned, the two of you rotating your hips again. He kept it up and you lost count of each thrust, each finished stroke making you moan or mewl or whimper as you lost sense of everything but the feel of him inside you and the rasping noise of his breathing next to your ear, his "Bones," or "Temperance" or "so fucking good" flushing your body with heat.

"Come on, baby," he finally grunted, pulling out only to slam back into you so hard you cried out, your back arching in pleasure. "You going to come for me again? You feel so good I'm not going to last much longer," he rasped, then slammed inside you again.

You cried out wordlessly, each pounding stroke of his heat in yours making you shudder-- until you shattered all over again, your hoarse, screaming "Seeley!" followed quickly by his "Oh God, oh fuck, oh Jesus, Bones, Temperance!" He hammered into you with only a few more strokes, his final call of your name coinciding with the feel of his length pulsing inside you as your walls cramped around him.

Your body shuddered against his, his arms at your hips now firmly wrapped around your waist as his breath roared in your ear. "Oh ... God ..." he groaned, as you clenched one last time around him. You just whimpered, unable to muster any verbal response.

At some point you regained enough of your breathing and muscle control to push up and look at him. "Glad your back feels better," you mumbled, mustering a smile.

"Yeah, me too." He paused, gave you a grin, then said "You can adjust me any time, baby."

A snort escaped you. "I might have to make some adjustments, but I'm sure I can find room."

His eyes darkened even as he laughed-- the next thing you knew, you were flipped onto your back and pulled forward, he'd somehow discarded the old condom and pulled on a new one, and he was kneeling at the side of the bed, stroking inside you and using the bed frame for leverage. That first stroke as he started all over again, his hands at your hips pulling you to him as he thrust into your heat, grunting "you'll find room, Temperance--" well, you felt more balanced, more aligned with everything than you had in a long time-- maybe ever. There was something to say for making adjustments for other people in your life—especially Booth. Only Booth, really.


	15. Finale

**A/N: A violent, post "Hero in the Hold" scene, dealing with one possible aftermath of the characters' actions. Nothing fluffy, loving, or smutty-- just violence.  
**

* * *

**Finale**

When it came, it came out of nowhere. I'd known it _had_ to be coming, it was inevitable-- but even as I was waiting for the sword to fall, I knew I could never predict when or how.

I got out of my car, locked it up, pulled the door shut on the garage and locked that too, ignoring the fact that all between here and the house was in darkness. It always was, these days. I was the only one home anymore, and I was only home physically. My mind was always elsewhere, though I didn't really know where.

I was almost to the door, just beyond the range of the motion-sensor light over the canopy, when it came out of nowhere. When _he_ came out of nowhere, a shadow melting from darkness, a black figure slamming into me with the force of a freight train.

The attack was relentless and measured. Each kick, each blow, each body slam into the ground or the trees lining the walk inflicted as much pain as possible-- and yet the part of my mind that retreated instantly to observe knew that nothing more than a few ribs would be broken. And it was the fact that it was so measured that was the most terrifying of all, because the attack went on forever. He knew exactly how much force to exert to exact so much pain that it was impossible to strike back, to do anything more than try to shield myself uselessly-- and yet, it was never enough to make me black out, to give me some respite from the attack.

It hurt so fucking much and _kept_ hurting so fucking much-- some part of my brain kept noting each impact, each body part, counting them all in my head and calculating the Newtons of force exerted on an animate object. The animate object being me, as my body recoiled from each blow-- at least I tried not to whimper or scream. I tried to take it as well as I could, all things considered.

I refused to let myself pray. Whatever happened, I'd already met as much of my fate as I'd ever know, whether death came for me now or some other time. I resigned myself to not knowing, and set myself to endure the rest of my punishment, trying to concentrate on breathing, on not sobbing, on not begging for mercy. I deserved none.

* * *

When I woke, I'd been granted mercy, despite everything.

I was in my bathroom, in my tub. A huge bucket of ice, a few bottles of water, a pile of towels and first aid supplies were all within reach-- including nose plaster, rib strapping, antibacterial ointment and gauze. I was still in my clothes-- he knew I wouldn't bother to check for particulates.

I could have sworn that just as I woke, groaning, there was the sound of the bathroom door shutting, as if someone was waiting for me to wake up. It wouldn't surprise me. Nothing would, anymore-- I could no longer try to anticipate what anyone might do. How could I, after what I'd done?

I struggled up-- undressed-- blasted the hot shower water over my bloody, bruised body, whimpering and wincing at the pain now that I was alone. I confirmed what that out-of-body analyst watching the attack told me-- only a few broken ribs and so many bruises that I was more bruise than clear skin. Every brush of fabric over skin, every attempt to sit or contact with anything would hurt for a week, maybe more.

Cleansed-- externally-- I dried off, used the first aid supplies as their presence suggested I do. When I looked at myself in the mirror I found one bad black eye, one less significant shiner, one straightforward broken nose, one split lip. I could take care of those myself-- I'd had broken noses before, broken ribs too. I think he knew that-- no, I know he knew that. He hadn't dealt out more than I could deal with myself.

The face staring back at me in the mirror around the injuries, though-- it was relieved. Vengeance had come, and he'd let me live to try to repent.

Only then did I look down and see the note he'd left. Again, he knew-- or didn't care-- that I wouldn't check for particulates. The words on the paper made his intentions utterly clear. I looked back up into the mirror-- the relief on my face disappearing as I absorbed what wasn't a warning. It was a promise.

* * *

"Oh my God! Hodgins! What happened to you?!?" Angela shouted, running down off the platform and across the floor of the lab when I came in Monday morning. She looked ready to cry, and I suppose some part of me ought to be grateful, but mostly I was concerned with keeping my cover story intact.

I stepped back before Angie could touch my face. My nose hurt like a sonofabitch, a throbbing, pounding, constant reminder of what I deserved.

"Had a short at the house over the weekend. I fell down the stairs," I said, flushing. Which I would do, if it was the truth. What kind of guy would admit that he'd fallen down the stairs at his own house unless it was the truth, and not turn bright red?

Everyone else was looking on curiously, Cam and Dr. B. looking concerned as they and Booth watched me from their height on the platform. Angela still looked agitated. "You look terrible, did you go to the doctor? Your nose is _totally_ broken. You should have stayed home."

I shook my head no, the jagged pain of my nose practically making me black out. I'd have to remember to avoid too much movement. "I got checked out by an expert, Angie. I'll live. Right now, though, I've got work to do."

With that, I headed off to my station, dropped my bag and booted up my computer. Seeing that I wasn't in the mood to discuss it, Angela drifted back up to the platform, where they finished discussing some non-case thing from before I came in.

They trouped down off the platform eventually, Dr. B. and Booth passing by my station of necessity on their way to her office. "Dr. Hodgins," Dr. B. said, her voice making me look up from where I'd been studying my screen. "Are you sure you're fit to work?"

I practically cried at the fact that she was concerned enough to ask me. Instead, I gritted my jaw, said "Thanks, Dr. B., but I'll deal with it," and gave them both a small nod that sent a wave of pain throbbing straight to my brain.

"If you're sure," she said, hesitating.

Booth spoke then. "Come on, Bones. Hodgins is a big boy-- if he thought he wasn't fit for work, he wouldn't come in. Isn't that right?"

"Right," I responded. He nodded at me once, his face utterly still and those brown eyes of his displaying nothing but glittering black. With his hand at Dr. B.'s back, he guided her back to her office, his guardian stance behind her unfaltering.

I shuddered, recalling the words I'd read Friday night, penned in that distinctive scrawl I knew from so many case reports.

_She could have been killed. I warned you once what would happen if you tampered with evidence. This is your second warning. Know that whether or not you return to the lab, the third time will not be a warning—just a finale_.


	16. Under My Skin

**_Sometimes I think Booth asks too much of our favorite forensic anthropologist. This was the result._**

**_Dark Brennan, references to past violence, current mild violence, sexual situations, light kink. B/B at the end, because it would kill me to write something where they didn't end up together.

* * *

  
_**

**Under My Skin**

"Holy fuck, what are those?" I heard him ask, his voice shocked and angry.

I stilled upon hearing his voice, then finished changing from the shirt I'd soiled during that day's apprehension to a cleaner, more casual one, my back to him as I steeled myself for the forthcoming confrontation.

"Scars," I said, turning to look at him. He looked shocked, and I supposed he would be. It wasn't as if I paraded around in bikini tops-- ever-- much less at the lab.

"I can _see_ that," he shot back angrily. "But that doesn't answer my question. What the hell are those, Temperance?"

I hated when he called me Temperance-- it meant he was trying to manipulate me again. Most of the time his concern and intent to make me deal with some pressing emotion was, well, not acceptable, but something I'd come to expect and assess as each situation arose, to decide whether I was willing to let him to manipulate me. Most of the time I allowed it-- he was better than I at picking apart emotional things and setting them out where I could see them. But this? It was long past, and no manipulation, no poking or prodding or peeling away on his part was going to change anything.

"They're scars, Booth. But if you must know, scars are areas of fibrous tissue that replace normal skin after an injury," I replied, my tone caustic. He was going to get the message that I was sick of him pressing me on everything if I had to hurt him to do so.

He advanced on me as I stood there, my arms crossed as I glared at him. "How. Did. You. Get. Them," he gritted out, his anger at seeing them and likely recognizing their cause now transferred to me. He strode into my personal space, acting as if his right to be there was as great as my own, and looked down at me while he drew himself up to his full height, maximizing his imposing physical form. Goddamned bully.

"It's none of your business," I answered evenly, staring him straight in the eye. "And you wouldn't have seen them if you hadn't walked in on me because you can't wait five more minutes for me to be change, when you know damned well the paperwork can wait until tomorrow. I'm not going to satisfy your curiosity-- you wouldn't have to ask if you'd respected my privacy."

His eyes were glittering black like they always do when he's furious, and the heat was beginning to emanate from him like a blast furnace. "Tell. Me. Who. Did. That. To. You," he demanded, as if I hadn't just told him to back off.

So I repeated myself. "It's none of your fucking business. Now get out of my room." He glared down at me, eyes darkening further, jaw clenching and nostrils flaring as if he were a bull ready to charge, though he remained still in my space.

Fine. He wanted to bully me? I was not going to just indulge his curiosity, his need to _pick, pick, pick_ all the time-- this time if he persisted, there were going to be consequences. I turned around and pulled a sweatshirt from my bureau to put on over my t-shirt-- then felt his hand grasp my waist firmly as he yanked the hem of my shirt up far enough to inspect the three long, jagged scars over the middle and lower part of my back.

I grabbed the hand he'd placed at my waist, twisting away from him and yanking his hand and arm up over my shoulder so I could gain leverage and toss him onto the floor. His yell of surprise only began make it out of his throat when his back slammed into the floor, his "What the _fuck_, Bones," transforming to a hard grunt as his breath was knocked from him. Still holding onto the arm I'd used to pull him over my shoulder, I stepped in close, twisting it just until it would be just short of painful-- then added the last bit of emphasis as I quickly maneuvered my boot-shod foot onto his penis, then pressed down firmly until I could feel the flesh yield slightly under my sole.

I think it was more the shock that I'd gotten the upper hand on him that made him fall still rather than any fear that I'd actually carry through with the threat my stance promised. I took the moment to press the sole of my foot down just a shade harder-- an almost imperceptible flinch passed over his face in a microsecond. _Now _he was listening.

"Sometimes I think you want to crawl inside me just so you can rummage around inside my head without having to deal with the inconvenient fact that they're _my_ thoughts, not yours. I am _sick_ of it, Booth. I deserve some fucking privacy," I said, practically growling. "You think you have some_ right_ to know everything about me, always fucking pick, pick, _picking_ at me all the fucking time, when they're my thoughts and should be my decision about whether or not I tell you or anyone about them."

"Bones," he said, voice gruff and half-breathless, "someone whipped you with a studded lash, for Christ's sake. What do you _mean_ it's none of my business? Who did that to you?" He flexed the arm I still held twisted, unconsciously testing my grip, and I twisted harder, responding. This time, his flinch was more noticeable. He was _always_ testing me, and I don't think he'd ever expected that I'd test him back.

"It's none of your business, Booth. It was a long time ago, and I took care of it myself. Like I always have, Booth. Whether or not you choose to believe it, I did manage to live sixteen years by myself before you came along. No one goes through life unscathed."

His presumption that he had a right to know anything and everything, his damned savior complex, his possessive aggression over something he couldn't even change-- I was just getting more angry, as was he, judging by his response.

"What do you mean you took care of it? Someone fucking _whipped_ you!" he yelled, nostrils flaring again and a vein pulsing in his forehead as he tried to decide if I really would kick him in the balls if he tried to get out of my hold.

"Yes. Someone did. And I sliced halfway through his neck with a machete," I replied with finality. "It was an effective end to the discussion. Although his cervical vertebrae did nick and dull the edge of the blade-- too bad, it was a good knife." It _had_ been a good knife. I'd kept it sharpened before that point-- to important effect when it was needed. I could still taste and smell the blood as it spurted up my arm, over my chest, neck and face-- then suppressed the memory again and got back to the matter at hand.

He just stared at me a long moment, his eyes widening as he saw I was serious.

"You want to know everything about me, Booth, but you _can't_. You pick all the time, always trying to peel away the things that worked_ fine_ to protect me before you came along. You've decided I need to be happier or less lonely or some other thing about what _feelings_ I should be having and use that to excuse your need to unearth every last goddamned secret. But let me tell you something-- scar tissue isn't pretty, Booth, and it might not be as good a protection as unblemished skin, but it's better than nothing at all."

I paused, then twisted his arm again, pressed down with my foot.

"You crawl under my skin, root around, peel everything away while you tell me how I ought to feel and be and do, and then you crawl out and go home for the night or go sleep with whomever you sleep with or get shot or die, and I'm left with no protection at all, just raw and bleeding-- completely exposed without even scars to protect me."

"Bones, I..." he began to say, his anger from earlier shading to shock and concern, that goddamned soft brown-eyed sympathetic look peeling me open all over again. I couldn't stand that look anymore.

"No. Shut the fuck up and listen," I said, removing my foot from over his penis, then tugging him upright by his arm, hard and fast so I could spin and slam him into the wall of my bedroom. Before he could catch his breath, I stepped in between his legs, brought my knee up firmly under his balls, and pinned him to the wall at shoulder and neck with my hands.

"I don't know anything about you, Booth, other than the few things you've told me or what I can physically observe-- you don't let me in, and I let you alone. I don't ask-- do you know why? There are some things that are simply too painful to talk about, ever-- and if they're going to come out in the open at all it has to be because you're ready to say something, and not because I'm _pick, pick, picking_ at you. You just think you have some right to invade me, turn everything over and _leave_."

His eyes were now wide with nothing but shock.

"I don't need to know everything about you, Booth, to know who you are and to content myself with what company you decide to afford me, but you can't do that for me, can you? You've got to investigate, interrogate, keep looking for answers even when sometimes _you don't even know the questions you're asking_."

He thought I didn't see the way he looked at me, like I was a puzzle he needed to crack before he could plot his next step-- or that I didn't know what his end game was. I knew he wanted me as a woman, that he wanted more than he'd allowed either of us with his line, but he didn't know just how much I really knew, really understood about what he was doing. I resented it and wasn't going to indulge his interest or mine beyond mere professional partners and friends so long as he refused to make any effort to change his behavior, after all the accommodations I'd made for him. I'd rather be lonely than not be deemed trustworthy.

I let go of his neck with one hand and slapped him hard, once, over that scar Pam Nunan's bullet left. "You want me to trust you, to tell you everything, but you've decided you can't trust me or tell me anything until you've pulled off every one of my goddamned insecure coping mechanisms that still fit together into a suit of armor that _works_. Do you know why you do it, push so hard at me, Booth? You want to make sure there isn't anything anywhere under all the things I've done to take care of myself that might make you think I'd be disgusted or frightened by whatever happened when you got _your_ scars."

I stepped away then, slapping him hard in the solar plexus before I pulled my shirt over my head, then kicked off my boots and peeled off my pants, standing in front of him in front of my underwear.

"Those lashes?" I asked, half turning to display the scars again. "El Salvador. They thought I was a spy, not a scholar. One of them tried to interrogate me, and I killed him as soon as I could get my hand on my knife."

"This cigar burn?" I said, pointing to the large coin-sized burn on my iliac crest. "My second foster father tried to make me stop fighting long enough so he could rape me. I stabbed him with a nail file, Booth. It stopped him rather effectively."

I pointed to the slash across the upper part of my left thigh, a thin white line, mostly faded, that he nevertheless saw as accustomed as he must be to the lace of scar tissue marking his own skin.

"This knife slash? I was working on a well-digging project on the Eritriean border in my next-to-last year of graduate school when a small troop of Djiboutian soldiers raided the village where I was working-- they captured the headwoman and held her hostage in her hut in order to force the villagers to let them use it as a further base for operations. My colleague and I hid in the brush after we'd escaped and radioed for help-- only to return and shoot them all in the back, one by one, when they began to discuss which little girl they'd rape first. The last one was half blocked by the wall of the hut they'd taken over, so I went in after him myself. He drew a knife on me, but I killed him, too."

He was wide-eyed as he looked at me, so shocked he was paralyzed.

"Do you need more? I suppose you need to hear that even though I regret hurting those people, I would do it all over again. What else do you need to know, Booth, to convince you that nothing you could have ever possibly done or had done to you would be something I haven't seen or done myself, so that I would no longer trust you or care about you? The only thing-- _only thing_, Booth-- that makes me not trust you is the fact that you think I'm so fucking weak that I can't handle the truth."

I pushed right back into his personal space, invading his like he always invaded mine-- and saw in the way he drew himself in as I advanced that I'd gotten to the core of it, all that shit that made him try to burrow inside me.

"You want me to let you in so you don't have to look at yourself, Seeley. But _I don't care_ what you think you look like-- I know what I see, and I trust you enough to let you take your time. But you don't trust me, and I'm sick of it-- it hurts more than all that past shit _combined_ to know that you trust me so little when I've trusted you with so much, or that you've dug so deep into me and yet you still don't know me at all, still think I don't trust you with everything. I've already given you more than anyone else, but it's never enough for you. You always want more, deeper, further."

"Bones..." he gasped, his eyes showing dismay.

I put my hand over his mouth, let my body come into contact with his as I pressed up against him, giving him more contact with me than he wanted right now. He wanted under my skin? I'd give him more than he'd ever bargained for.

"_I'm not finished_. You, Seeley Booth, look at scars and see them as something to be afraid of-- they remind you of the pain and the fear of not knowing whether you're going to make it out alive, and you feel weak for ever feeling that way-- so you need to save everyone else in the world from those feelings, no matter how old those scars are. _I don't see them that way_. Scars mean that _yes_, Booth, I was so scared I pissed myself in the midst of it and didn't sleep for months afterward and still get the shakes when I hear certain noises or smell certain smells or just see someone move jerkily out of the corner of my eye, but they mean something more, too. They mean I _survived_, Booth-- they mean that no matter how scared I was, I still got myself out of there. Scars aren't pretty or comfortable, and when they're done healing, they can pull and inhibit movement, and you have decreased feeling afterward-- but they also remind me that I made it through in the past and can do it again if I have to. I see someone else's scars, and I _know_ how terrified they were at the time-- I feel no need whatsoever to remind them. I know they were strong enough to survive whatever it was-- in the end, that's all that matters. I _don't fucking care_ about the fear and pain of the moment-- I just respect the fact that the wounds healed over at all."

His eyes were wide, his breath short under my hands, and though he neither trembled nor sweated, his muscles became harder with tension as I berated him. He wouldn't like what I had to say next, either.

I stepped away and removed my hand from his mouth as I tried to keep my own body's desire to tremble under control.

"I have scars, Booth, and you can't heal them all. You need to accept that I'm scarred and that I'm always going to have some inhibited movement, some lack of feeling-- if you can't, well, do what you want to avoid looking at yourself, just not by trying to hide inside _me _anymore. Go hide somewhere else than under my skin, Booth-- it's way over that line of yours, and I'm tired of shielding us both from the things you don't want to talk about by pretending like I don't know what you're doing, like I don't know what you want but that you're too afraid to do something about. I can't prove things you can't even admit you need to hear. It hurts every single time you doubt me, and yet you keep coming back needing me to prove that you can keep going before I can even scab over from the last time you didn't believe me. And ... you keep making promises I want to believe, but I just _can't_, because you won't believe I might ever accept them, accept _you_."

I backed further away, picked up the sweatshirt and shrugged it over my head. "I'm not used to people needing me, Booth-- I try, but it's still hard sometimes. I'm good at answering questions, if someone asks me one-- but I'm not used to people disbelieving me when I answer the questions they manage to ask. I can't win this game, not the way you're playing it, and I wish that I could-- but you keep changing the rules, and it's hard to keep up."

I stopped for a moment while I pulled my pants back on, then looked back at him as I shoved on my boots. He was utterly stunned, his chest heaving and eyes wide as he stood there, shocked silent. I spoke once more, my voice thick as I said what was clear in my mind, as painful as it was going to be to hear it aloud.

"I am who I am, Booth. You can make the scar tissue relax a bit, massage it with oil and soften it up-- but it's still a scar, and it's always going to be there a little. If it heals any further, it's not going to be in a couple of weeks. Get used to it, get used to _me_, or get out. You can't rescue me from something that's already happened, and I can't believe in the thing you call love if it means you think you love me but can't ever believe that I might in return."

With that, I walked past him and out of my room, intending to leave.

"Bones, please," he called, feet pounding behind me. "Please don't go." He grabbed me around the waist from behind, breathing heavily, unrestrained panic in his voice. "Don't," his voice rasped in my ear. He spun me, started pressing desperate kisses all over my face and neck. "You're right," he gasped, his arms viselike around me. "I shouldn't doubt you, you're right," he continued, his eyes terrified and sincere.

In truth, my legs shook as I walked out on him, and I had no idea whether I was strong enough to walk out my own door, leaving him here in my home and essentially abandoning myself and who I'd become as he'd burrowed his way into my life. But I couldn't bear the idea of continuing on as we had. That he'd run after me, caught up to me, grabbed hold-- I tried hard not to sag with relief.

His voice was still half-strangled with panic, his eyes partly wild as he spoke, his arms still holding me tightly.

"I ... I kept thinking we were too different and that you'd never want me, much less all the things I always thought I wanted like marriage and kids-- and you're right, Bones, really-- I just ... I just want to take care of you and I can't even take care of myself. But all that stuff doesn't matter, not compared to not being with you. Please ... _please_," he said, his voice and eyes begging me to believe him, "I _do_ trust you, it's _me_ I don't trust, and I promise ... I promise I'll do what I have to to do better but ... please, Bones, I can't do it without you."

His eyes streamed tears as he spoke, and his arms circling my waist kept convulsing, squeezing me so tightly in fear I'd try to escape that I could hardly breathe. I found myself crying, too, the relief of his finally _getting_ it, the adrenaline of my anger and fear and the rush of tossing him onto the floor all catching up to me. I shook, my knees wobbling.

"Booth," I replied, my voice tight. "I can't just make snap decisions like you do all the time-- I have to think about things, sometimes for a while, and I need you to be patient. I don't always know why you do the things that you do, I just don't think like you-- you have to explain it to me before I can think about it."

"I know, I know," he said, before pressing more fervid kisses over my forehead, his hand at my nape pressing me to his mouth. "I promise, I do, I'll make it work, I'll stop doubting, just ... oh, God, please Bones, don't go." He choked on these last words, his hand in my hair trembling as he clasped my head to him, his voice rough in my ear.

"Okay," was the only word I could manage, my throat clogged with sobs I was trying hard to suppress. My arms came up to embrace him, circling his waist and gripping him hard-- needing to hold on to him as much as he did to me.

My one word-- my one motion-- unleashed a torrent of passion. Pulling me so closely to him that my ribs creaked, he crashed his lips into mine. This time I welcomed his invasion, my lips parting under the pressure.

I tasted him as his tongue entered, the hot pepper and cinnamon taste of him that I'd almost forgotten filling my mouth. I grabbed him harder, pressing myself to him tight enough in the hope I could melt into him in return. I backed him toward the bedroom, my mouth never leaving his as I nipped and sucked at his tongue. His hands were gripping my face as we moved, my hands on his back roaming and squeezing so I could make sure this was actually happening, and wasn't the product of some fevered dream.

I was so intent on touching him, tasting him, that I partly backed him into a table. He came to a halt, grabbing my arms and steadying us both against the forward force of inertia-- then shifted his grip and pulled me up into his arms to carry me the rest of the way to my bedroom.

My clothes, so hastily re-donned, quickly fell to the floor, and I yanked his shirt from his pants and over his head, sealing my mouth over the first scar I could find, a slash over his ribs. We tumbled back onto my bed, him straddling me and then standing as quickly as possible while he fumbled out of his pants and his boxers.

I shed my own underthings, bra and underwear cast to the side as he lunged back onto the bed, a need as desperate as mine in his eyes.

"Booth," I groaned, as he sealed his mouth over my breast, his hands raking my sides and kneading my ass as he sucked at me. The heat rolling from him was as scorching as it was earlier, when he'd first seen my scar and burned in fury at the thought I'd been hurt when he could do nothing about it. His strong fingers pressed into me, massaging and gripping as his mouth on me only sealed tighter, his tongue pushing on me as I arched under his touch.

I moaned "oh God, Seeley" when he switched his attentions to my other breast, his hands at my hips pressing him to me, the hard, hot length of his body and manhood against me stealing my breath. His insistent mouth on my breast left me, and he pressed hard sucking kisses over my chest. I was almost overwhelmed by him already, and needed to take something back of me before I drowned-- so I flipped him, then slid down the hard length of his beautiful muscled body, straddling him as I licked my way down his chest, tasting him with firm strokes of my tongue.

Before he was done gasping "Bones," I'd taken his shaft into my mouth, my hand firmly gripping the base. I pulled him once, hard, out of my mouth before sliding my lips down and back more gently, then let him slide out of his mouth. Still holding the base of his shaft, I circled the smooth head with my tongue, teasing his slit before taking just the head of him back into my mouth, sealing my lips just under the ridge and sucking him hard as I pushed my tongue hard over him.

His groan was wordless and loud, one hand automatically coming to grip the back of my head. I teased the head of him some more, then let him out of my mouth again, letting him rest in my palm as I took my time looking at him. Shifting, I flicked my tongue over his length, then traced each vein lining his hard length, feeling them flatten under my tongue as I tasted each inch of him. "Oh, Bones, oh God," he moaned, his fingers flexing in my hair, instinctively pushing when I started to knead his balls with the hand not holding him steady for my oral inspection.

I took him back into my mouth then, setting a slow rhythm of sucking and stroking my tongue over him before I began sliding my lips up and down over his length. I sped and slowed my mouth over him, alternating how hard I was sucking or tonguing him until he was gasping, his hips bucking into my mouth despite how his tense muscles told me he was trying to hold himself back from face fucking me as I sucked at him.

I'd so often felt at his mercy when he picked at me, felt unable to move or avoid him as he pinned me down with his words and those knowing eyes of his as revealed some other part of me that needed changing before I was quite ready to face it. Some small part of that resentment fed the way I was taunting him with my mouth, but it was only a small part. Mostly I just wanted to taste him, make him respond to me, see what it felt like to do all those things I'd suppressed thoughts of until I could come home to my empty apartment and engage in fantasies I didn't think would ever come true.

He was panting hard, and moaning "Temperance, please..." as I slid him out of my mouth again only to suck hard at the head of him while I pushed at his slit with my tongue. I shifted then, the hand fondling his balls slipping lower, my thumb pressing hard just underneath. He jerked uncontrollably, the head of him slamming hard into the back of my mouth. I softened the back of my throat and sucked him harder, speeding the pace of my lips over him as I firmly massaged his perineum in time with the slide of my mouth.

"Oh fuck, oh Jesus, oh... _fuuuuck_... Bones," he groaned, his response to me becoming less controlled as he bucked hard once again into my throat, his hand pushing me down. I took him all the way in, sucking and sliding and pushing at him, needing him to feel as out of control as I'd felt each time he got hurt, each time I thought he was gone.

I pushed him over the edge. Shifting my grip on him, I sucked his length hard against the back of my palate, pressing hard with my thumb as I hooked a finger inside him, squeezing hard on his prostate as he roared, his body seizing as he exploded into my mouth. I sucked at him and swallowed the salty hot wash of semen, massaging him from within as he trembled and groaned. I swallowed the last pulses of his release from him as I slid my lips up and down over his length one last time.

When I let him slide out of my mouth and released him from my hands, he whimpered and twitched, moaning as I flicked my tongue over the tip of his shaft one last time, then proceeded to lick my way back up his body before straddling him and grasping his face with my hands.

I kissed him, his own arms coming up to crush me to him as I thrust my tongue in his mouth, letting him know the taste of him in my mouth as his hands flexed and gripped me. He rolled me, still panting from his rocketing orgasm, and trapped my body beneath his as he dug a hand under my head, gripping my hair hard in his fingers as he nipped and licked his way down the front of my throat.

"Need you ... so ... much ..." he grunted between bites, before retaking one breast in my mouth, sucking my nipple between scant-parted teeth, the scrape of it making me moan. The hand not in my hair-- to hold me back as he took his turn-- found its way to my core. His questing fingers found me wet and ready, my walls aching the whole time I'd had him in my mouth.

I cried out when he plunged two fingers inside me, the relief of some part of him filling me shading quickly to a desperate need for more. His mouth sucked and bit its way between both breasts and over my belly, the sharp nip and hard sucks of his mouth an unpredictable counterpoint to the thrusts of his fingers and the press of his thumb over my clit. My own hands were grasping his head now, my fingers deep in his short brown velvet hair as I clawed at him in reflex-- his arm over my hips and his hand grasping my hair made it nearly impossible to squirm and writhe as hard as I needed to if was going to find some kind of relief. I begged him, crying out as each plunge of his fingers inside me built an unbearable tension so painful that my breath sobbed between pleas of "Booth ... oh God, please ... oh, I can't ...."

He paused, pushed three fingers inside me, and spread my walls wide and hard as his thumb rubbed my clit feverishly, then he sucked hard on the scar on my hip that I'd shown him. I was lost-- there was a distant wail that must have been mine, but all I could feel was a torrent of heat flooding me, all from his hand and his mouth still working me. It was a wracking, shuddering climax, harder and longer and utterly shattering-- I didn't know if I knew who I was anymore even as I came back to myself, little whimpering mewls escaping me as he worked his own way up my body, his tongue laving the sweat beading on me from the fever he'd built in me.

As he hovered close over my face, I grasped his head, pulling him down to kiss me again even as he grasped my hips and sheathed himself in me with one powerful stroke. I screamed into his mouth, and he broke away to shout "Bones!" as his own shock at our joining shot through him.

"Oh God," he gasped. "Temperance ... mine ...." he groaned, his face close to mine and his eyes as deep brown as I'd ever seen them.

I moaned as his length twitched inside me. "Seeley ... oh ... don't stop ... don't ever ... mine ... more ... " I managed to gasp, my hands now gripping and clawing his shoulders. I ground my hips into his, needing movement, needing him, needing more.

He jerked when I ground against him and whined his name again, bucking out and returning hard to me, filling me so completely that I moaned at the perfection of it. "More," I gasped.

That decided him, and he jerked me down on the bed as he shifted, pushing my legs up and open until I was completely exposed to him, returning hard to my body as I took him in, thrusting hard up to meet him. Each time he filled me I grunted or cried out in pleasure, the need for him that had been growing all of these years still growing, not sated despite the way he was filling me. "More ... harder ... deeper ..." I heard myself order, a desperate tone to my hoarsening voice. I screamed as he slammed hard into me, his hands gripping my ass jerking me hard to him as I screamed "Yes!" when he finally plunged almost deep enough to start to satisfy my clamoring weakness for him.

He pulled out and flipped me around, resheathing himself in my core so quickly again that I squealed in surprise, bracing myself on my forearms as he knelt up and started plumbing my depths again. "Yes ... _fuuuck_ ... oh God ... more ..." I shouted, slapping my hands on the bed as he pulled me to him, one hand so hard on my hip it would leave bruises, the fingers of his other hand splayed and digging into those scars on my back-- those scars that started this all.

The weight of him crashing into me was almost enough, and I gained enough purchase under me to firm up my arms and thrust back to meet him. The new position and depth brought him hard over those sensitive ridges inside me and the tension started to burn through me again-- until without warning, another orgasm tore through me.

I was still screaming from the force of it when he flipped me again, pulling my legs up over his shoulders and slowing his pace in me as my walls clenched and flooded and cramped. He'd gritted his jaw, grunting hard through his teeth each time he came home to me, then panted "love you ... so ... fucking much ..." as he stared down at me.

His hands curled at my shoulders pinned me in place as he stroked into my center, the end of his thrust in time with his declaration of love. "Oh God, Booth," I managed before he returned to me again, the hard thickness of him in my core and the heat of his eyes on me making me writhe. "Need ... oh ... Seeley ... please ... love ..." was all I could manage as he kept plunging inside me, my eyes locked with his as we crashed into each other.

And then I could feel him gathering in me, a groan of anticipation erupting from him-- in a flash, he let go of one shoulder to pluck my clit hard with his fingers, pushing me over the edge just a second before him.

My voice was so hoarse by this point that my scream choked off, silent as I arched to take him as deep as I could when he collapsed onto me, roaring "Bones" so loudly it deafened me.

Our hearts hammered so madly, our pulses beat so strongly, our chests rose with such frantic panting as our sweat and scent melded that I didn't think I could ever move without him again. At some point, our bodies calmed, cooling against one another, the weight of him on me comforting rather than stifling. He turned his face into my neck, kissing and sucking gently at me and making his way to my mouth. Panting lightly, he pushed himself up on his forearms just enough to let him rest his forehead against mine. I looked back at him, searching his eyes as he gazed into mine, finding him naked for once, completely open to me.

"Scars and all," he whispered, kissing me before he rolled to his side, pulling me with him while I tugged up the covers. His arm under my waist pulled me into the cradle of his hips, the curves of my back and thighs fitting into him like no one before.

"Just keep letting me in," I rasped hoarsely, pressing myself back into him as his warm mouth pressed a kiss to my shoulder.

"Promise..." he replied, kissing me softly again. "Just stay."

"Promise," I murmured, pulling the hand he'd placed on my hip up to place a warm kiss in his palm-- then fell into sleep, our bodies melding together and the feel of him against me no longer invasive, but welcome.

* * *

_I've got you under my skin / I've got you deep in the heart of me / So deep in my heart, that you're really a part of me / I've got you under my skin_

_I've tried so not to give in / I've said to myself this affair never will go so well / But why should I try to resist, when baby I know too well / That I've got you under my skin_

_I'd sacrifice anything come what might / For the sake of having you near / In spite of a warning voice that comes in the night / And repeats, repeats in my ear_

_Don't you know you fool, you never can win / Use your mentality, wake up to reality / But each time I do, just the thought of you / Makes me stop before I begin / cause I've got you under my skin_

**The things that occur to me when I listen to Sinatra.**


	17. Permanent, Not Temporary

**This is a piece not unlike **_**Ask Me No Questions**_** in that it's a stream of consciousness piece, exploring the darkness we know lies beneath the outward persona of our favorite FBI Agent-- and his observation of the darkness beneath that of his partner's.**

**Warning: Strong violence, language and sexual themes. No actual rape. And no sweet love making. This is all about harsh realizations and the aftermath.  
**

* * *

**Permanent, Not Temporary**

You figured you'd just drop the file off at her office. It was late on a Friday night, and unfortunately you were all too aware of the fact that she was out on a date. Not that Bones told you-- she seemed to have stopped letting you know when she had one. No, you only found out when Angela told you, or when you overheard something. Tonight, it was Angela who told you when you called earlier, looking for Bones and unable to reach her on her cell. Angela had just said "sorry, I think she went out to a play with someone." Bones seemed to have finally gotten fed up with the fact that you crashed her dates all the time with "business," and now did her best to keep them secret from you. Not that she was lying-- she simply never volunteered the information anymore.

And why should she? You did crash her dates for no good reason-- at least none you'd clearly explained. You'd never spoken of your own interest _love lust need desire aching belief in her purity love _in her-- just hinted and implied and danced around it until you were dizzy and confused and found it hard to keep track of what you had and hadn't said. How was she supposed to know what you thought when you didn't know half the time? She didn't guess. Didn't suppose. Wouldn't theorize about anything about which she didn't at least have some concrete facts to go on. And you never gave her concrete facts-- if you did, she might say no, or say yes and even worse, then find out what a fraud you were, see the unholy terror you'd buried under your civilized veneer, the one she relied on-- then she couldn't react in fear and disgust to send you away when she heard the cold winter wolves that would freeze the whole world in ice if you let them out of the stockade you'd set up around them. You couldn't bear that-- her accepting you was what kept that veneer glued in place, when everything else pulled at its edges, seeped underneath to eat at the glue. She kept you firm, kept the monsters inside, kept them from bursting forth from under the bed to lay waste to the world. It was better to stand by and be there for her when the rest of them let her down. At least in the role you'd appointed yourself, you couldn't disappoint her. Even if it stayed that way forever.

In this self-hating and reflective state of mind as you pulled into the lab garage, you never expected to see her being mauled by the _fuck, he's got to have at least four inches and fifty pounds on her _date up against her car, her trunk open as if she'd been putting something away or retrieving something. He backhanded her hard, and she fell halfway into the trunk, even as you gunned the engine and screeched to a halt just shy of them. You hopped out and sprinted ready to _shoot the fucker point blank through the head strangle him with your bare hands slice his throat open with the knife in the car disembowel him just like Bones' father _defend your partner _Bones the love of your life the only thing that kept the horrors inside_ she lurched forward and swung straight for his head with her tire iron.

With one sickening crack, her attacker fell to the side, her follow through on the choked-up steel bar utterly perfect. _Does she play golf or softball? She should._

You'd already pulled the safety back and had your finger half-depressed on your trigger when Bones swung that rod like a home-run derby winner, aiming with precise murderous intention to smash his skull like an egg and snap his neck. You skidded to a stop, lowering your weapon and fingering the safety back into place automatically as you looked at your partner in shock.

Her chest was heaving, one sleeve of her dress torn, a bruise already forming on one perfect cheek, her lip split and the slit at the side of her dress ripped up almost up to her waist. Her eyes glittered with real madness-- madness you'd seen in your own eyes when your wolves bayed, the monsters strayed out into the room, your dogs strained at their leashes.

_Bones has her own dogs of war, and they're not leashed right now. _Somehow you'd always known that, but knowing it and seeing it were two different things. _You didn't see it when she shot Pam Nunan or worked over Veleska Miller with her dad but it wasn't there when she shot Lappin and made ready to shoot Howard Epps. _She held the tire iron just loose enough in her hand, ready to swing again if he so much as moved, though her posture was already relaxing as she looked the body over and clearly assessed that he was dead. _Bones knew just how much force to use. Just like you do._ _Except when you use more-- purposefuly. You stuff those monsters away for a reason._

"_I can take care of myself, Booth_," she'd said, and oh, she was right. It broke your heart that she had to.

"Okay, Bones," you said soothingly. "He's not going to get up again."

It was the first time she looked at you directly and you were frightened when she did-- her expression full of hatred for her attacker barely dimmed when she saw you, though the object of hate twisted in the shift of her glance. And in that second, you saw straight through her, and what you saw pierced you through, pinned you in place with the barbed spear of her truth. You could hear her thoughts as if she'd said them aloud. _Men all want to hurt, to abandon, to take. Men fail me. No man wants to heal, stay, give so I'm not alone each time this happens. Why do I keep trying? _If you tried to remove that spear, the barbs of it would rip you apart because you'd just proven it by arriving almost too late. You had to try to learn to live with this truth she'd just stabbed you with instead.

"Damned right he's not," she said with an inhuman snarl. "Are you going to arrest me or call this one in? Because I'm pretty sure the video cameras will show the rest of it."

"I'll call this one in, you're totally right" you said, slowly holstering your weapon in clear sight so she saw you weren't going to challenge her. "Why don't you let the tire iron go, we'll let them look at it when they come."

She blinked, snapped out of the rage-induced fugue she was in and looked at the tire iron in her hand in disgust before dropping it hard on the ground. "Just like McVicker," she said-- then fainted.

It was only because you'd been standing close enough to _grab the monster and crack his neck with your arm even as you shot him point blank to the head _deal with the situation yourself that you caught her and carried her back to the truck before she hit the ground.

* * *

The monster Bones slew was dressed in a tux. The way Bones bashed him in the side of his head and snapped his neck, there wasn't even any blood splatter on his crisp white shirt, though his shirt was out of his pants and his fly half-unzipped when you took a closer look. _He hadn't gotten there yet, but he was on his way. _When the EMTs and Homicide guys showed up from the Bureau _thank God the lab rented space on federal property_ three minutes later _thank God the Hoover was only five minutes away_, they immediately followed your lead, coordinating with the security guys inside to get the films of the garage.

The security guard on duty was of course baring his belly and throat to you trying to be cooperative. "What the fuck were you doing, sucking your own dick instead of watching the screens?" you hissed in his face, keeping your voice low enough that no one except those standing right on top of you would hear. "This is the second fucking time she's been attacked in this parking garage, and this time right in front of a goddamned motherfucking camera!" _Note to self, get the lab's security guys in a room, one by one, and make them piss themselves in fear._

It was only the presence of your colleagues also cringing in the heat of your rage that kept you from unleashing _the dogs the wolves the monsters _the full force of your fury on the lazy know-nothing asshole and beating him to a pulp right then and there. That and the fact that the EMTs who'd been looking at Bones as she still lay unconscious on the back seat of your truck were now being batted away by her increasingly louder assertions that she was fine.

You turned your back on the cowering asshole without hesitation, elbowed your way through the EMTs to look at her, take her in, make sure she was fine as she said. And battered, bruised, furious, scared out of her mind, she _was_ fine as she glared back at you. _As fine as anyone got under the circumstances, and no doubt better right now that you were. At least she'd gotten to kill someone._ It was clear to everyone what had happened. It was clearer still when the SAIC from Homicide who came at your call reviewed the films on the laptop in his truck, his subs gathered around to agree on an onsite determination. _Fuck protocol and UASAs and official channels and case closures. This is Bones, and they will speed this the fuck up._

You didn't need to see the films to know what your colleagues would say.  
_  
Perfectly executed and justified deadly force in self defense of an attempted first degree rape and possible homicide by a man almost a third larger than her. _

There would be a report, photos, a statement from Bones and from you, a copy of the security films in the file, and the whole thing signed, sealed, and delivered to your office to never see the light of day, much less a newspaper report. By the look of everyone standing there looking at you as you once again catalogued your partner's injuries, there was a silent and universal agreement. No one here would speak outside of officially-mandated meetings.

But they still skirted around you, because they knew. _You hadn't gotten to kill anyone yet in revenge for what happened to her, and you were still ready to._

"Booth," said Andrews, your Homicide counterpart, drawing you off. Before you acknowledged him, you exchanged a long look with Bones. _I know you think we're all scum. I get that. But I'm not like the others. I'm ugly, but never toward you._

Her still half-mad eyes glittered. _I'm not sure I believe you _they said clearly, but there was something else there you weren't quite sure you understood. You'd always been able to read what she was thinking in those expressive blue eyes of hers, even as her face stayed impassive. You couldn't read this last bit, though.

You stood off to the side, watching as everyone skirted a wide berth around Bones as it became clear exactly how hard she'd crushed the head of her date _attacker scum of the earth monster._

"The films are clear as day. And I don't know how on earth she recovered enough to focus and hit him as hard as she did." He was trying to use the same trick Booth had with Bones-- speak slowly and calmly to someone so enraged that you just couldn't predict how they react. You weren't in the mood to be soothed, but you recognized the need to appear so, at least if you were going to get Bones home and out of here.

"Fine," you grunted. "No charges. I'll make sure she comes in tomorrow to give a statement."

"Right," Andrews said. "Exactly." He paused a moment, then looked sideways at you as you looked at your partner, who stood once again on alert, watching everyone around her with a flickering, mad sort of attention that you were sure would result in another tire iron to the head _or gunshot she was in reaching distance of the Glock under the seat and she knew damned well it was there _if she felt threatened. "Is she going to be okay?" Andrews asked, hesitantly.

"Bones is a survivor," you heard yourself say. _Surviving isn't the same as not being broken, crazy, deranged, ready to crack at the next provocation. _"I'll make sure she gets home. You're going to process the car, I assume?"

Just then the van showed up and your own evidence team appeared. "Marcus," you barked, and Agent Geier jogged over to meet you, taking the whole scene in in one sweep of his spectacle clad eyes. "You know the drill."

He nodded. "Nothing but the best for Dr. Brennan," he said, then walked without further ado over to the blood-spattered cement, the open trunk, the signs of struggle, the fallen body. He stooped down, examined the body more closely, then began to direct the rest of the techs to take photographs.

He gave you a respectful but not cowed look _he's part of your pack, he knows your monsters dogs wolves won't go after him_, then approached Bones. "Dr. Brennan," he said evenly. "Would you mind if I did your photographs now so that we can get you out of here as quickly as possible?"

"Of course," she said, showing recognition of Booth's head Tech Agent as she slapped down her "collecting evidence" face over her wary expression. Geier said something lower, then gestured to the other side of the truck. She led the way and he followed, camera in hand, and were back in less than three minutes, though you were sure that between the two of them they'd documented everything that was needed. He lent her a hand back up onto the seat of the truck, then said something that elicited a smile _a half crazy one but a smile all the same _from your partner.

Geier returned, briefed you and Andrews on how the rest would go, then said "I think we don't need anything further from Dr. Brennan tonight. She's going to follow evidence protocol with her belongings when she gets home. She'll bring them in tomorrow."

Andrew nodded, not arguing. It wasn't common to let victims_ Bones _go home and take care of their clothing _evidence _themselves, but it was Bones.

"Good," you grunted. "I'm leaving. Call me if you need anything." Geier and Andrews both nodded, and Geier stepped off just as you did.

"What did you say to make her smile just then?" you heard yourself ask.

He looked at you sidewise, the first feral smile you'd ever seen from him twisting his face. "I told her it was a nice shot." _It was. The best one I've ever seen._

* * *

She was silent all the way back to her place, except for a thanks when you shook out and handed her a fleece blanket you kept in the back of the truck. She wrapped it around herself, carefully avoiding any glimpse of her clothing-- she just stared straight ahead, thinking hard. Whatever she'd been feeling that had her looking blank at the scene now had all her gears whirring, and you were afraid to prompt her, interrupt her, provoke her until you saw her safely inside her home, the door barred to all outside dangers. You, you could play guard dog once you got her settled.

She said nothing, still, when you stopped the car-- just undid her seatbelt and slipped out, clutching the blanket around her. Looking toward the front door and the watchman sitting there, she thought a long moment before she pulled out the hairpins that held the last bits of her hair up in its chignon and shook it down so that the fall of it somewhat obscured the bruise on her cheek.

_She's already hiding, even though she's probably paraded bare-faced through there before with injuries from work. If it's personal, though, it makes all the difference in the world._

You followed her into the building, just catching up and standing between her and the doorman as she passed him, and giving him the nod that said _nothing to see here_.

She was still silent in the elevator, her jaw clenched and her fingers grasping the fleece so tightly her knuckles were white. She'd been given first aid for her lip, but aside from that, everything else was just bruises. "_No signs of sexual activity, forced or otherwise_," the EMT said back at the scene, a horrible echo of that time in New Orleans. She'd fought back then. Took care of herself then. And again, you hadn't been there to help when she needed you most. You wondered how much more broken she was this time than before. How many times, more than the twice that you knew of, had she fought off a vicious attack like this, then got on with her life? Were you being vain in thinking you were the only one who was broken?

She was still gripping the fleece when the two of you stopped at her door, so you pulled out your own keychain and let the both of you in.

She stopped at the counter, clearly thinking, and watched as you went through the house, flicking all the lights on to reassure both of you. Her snort from behind said she knew just what you were doing. When you returned, she'd loosened her grip enough to toss her evening bag on the counter before pulling the fleece back around her. When she looked at you again, that seething hatred you'd seen earlier was pushed down far in her eyes, a small yellow glimmer rather than a hot-red lava-like flood ready to burst forth and consume everything in its path, her included. She'd capped it, leashed it, forced it back down.

"You can go now," she said, her voice cracked and dry.

_Of course she wants you to go. But you can't. She doesn't believe you'll come back, or that you'll come back in time. And why should she? Kenton, New Orleans, Sully sailing away, the Gravedigger, all times you should have been there for her, stopped it happening at all and you weren't. Don't say you're going to stay. Ask if you can. You've got to make her believe you won't keep making these same mistakes, that you're here for her this time._

"Bones," you said, trying a new tack. Clearly the old one had failed, miserably. "I know you don't need me here. I know you can take care of yourself. But it would reassure me if you let me crash here tonight so I can feel like you're okay. Please?"

She stared at you hard, her only response a terse nod before she stalked off to her bathroom and shut the door firmly behind her.

* * *

She emerged twenty minutes later, disappearing down the hall to her room. Not that you looked. However much time she took was fine with you. Of course you hoped she'd actually talk to you, but given what you'd seen in her eyes, you decided you'd better not push it. If she needed until tomorrow to round up all the monsters again, then you'd give that to her, not interrupt her if she decided to go straight to bed. Lord knew how much time you needed inside your own head to make the baying, the yelping, the growling stop so you could look out at the world with something resembling a human light in your eyes again.

Instead of heading to bed and not emerging until daylight made it all tolerable again, she came out dressed in sweats, showered, and her things in a properly-sized evidence bag tucked under her arm for her to place at the door so she wouldn't forget it. _Only Bones keeps evidence bags in her room. _She poured herself a glass of water and looked at you sitting on the couch, your shoes kicked off and your suit jacket over the back of a chair. She looked calm, but she wasn't-- those yellow embers still shot sparks in her eyes.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said evenly. Too calmly. She was trying to reassure herself, tell her own dogs of war that they should stand down.

"Okay," you said quietly, meaning it. You'd seen enough, and suddenly you were sick with yourself at yet again putting her in this position. You were flawed, dangerously so, but never with her-- except when it came to not trusting yourself, pretending that no danger would come to her if you pretended that wall of partnership was there to keep you both safe. It hurt her, because you weren't around for her when harm came calling, weren't there because once you told her you loved her you'd be damned if you let her out of your sight.

"There's food in the fridge," she said dryly. "Amazingly. Help yourself." And with that, she was gone, walking down to her bedroom and shutting the door with finality. _I don't believe you're reliable, not really, either-- _that closing door said-- _but I'll put up with you anyway._

The only thing that stopped you from going after her and making her talk to you was the slow-motion replay of her swinging that tire iron perfectly at that monster's head. _Bones can take care of herself, whether she wants to or not._

So you let her go. Sat on her couch. And thought. Hard. You weren't any better than all those unreliable, dangerous men you tried to protect her from, not tonight. Not all the times that you thought you were. Had you ever been? More importantly, could you ever be? Was it possible to protect her from her monsters when you had so many of your own?

* * *

An unholy shriek. One you'd made, just in your baritone, all too many times before.

_You always sat there, staring, panting, sweating, stunned for long moments when you woke up from the truth nightmare horror calamity of knowing your monsters had come out to play again._

"Bones," you said, pushing open her door. "Bones, hey."

You were right-- she was just sitting upright, stock still, panting and staring, as yet unseeing.

"Bones? Temperance? Hey, there," you said, sitting gingerly next to her on the bed. "Want something? A water? Anything?"

She blinked in the light coming in from the hall, breathed in a gasp, shuddered just once.

"No."

Her voice was so dry that sandpaper was wetter.

"Are you sure?" you asked, hesitant. She didn't look well. _Of course, you probably never did, either, you just weren't looking in the mirror right at the moment._

She looked blankly ahead. "You'll just be gone again in the morning," she said, hardly seeming aware you were there.

If that look of hers back in the parking garage was a barbed spear of torturous truth, this was a soul-searing, life-extinguishing lightning bolt of not realization-- just of plain, pure accusation. Not just accusation-- truth. You were around more than some, yes, but were you there in the moments that mattered most? During her nightmares? When she was trying to do good things and dark men wanted to stop her? When she was just trying to find company, find some kind of distraction, and instead found insult and injury? You weren't the one giving her company. And whatever you were doing wasn't enough to keep her from feeling lonely enough to still need it.

You weren't there, weren't here with her. She was right. For all intents and purposes, you would be gone again in the morning, no matter how many times you dropped in to visit afterward-- because that's what you did. Visited-- didn't stay in the darkest watches of the night. She didn't need to believe in Matthew's words to know you were no comfort when there was no dawn in sight. There was no stronger indictment.

"So... let me stay," you heard yourself staying. "I'll stay. If you let me."

She looked at you, pupils wide in the darkness. She didn't believe you. Why should she? You lied, you pretended, you acted like you didn't know that she looked at you hopefully, wondering sometimes. You told yourself that your secrets were more than she could handle, that the skeletons in your closet and the monsters under your bed would scare her as they became evident-- but how was that true? You kept coming back to the same truth. You needed her. If you left her, or she left you, it would all come raging out-- and so you would do what you could to never let her go.

Except it hadn't been enough, wasn't still. Half-holding on as you had-- grabbing hold of her too late. Look at what happened to Epps. You needed a surer grasp than you'd taken, because she knew you weren't holding out, holding on with an open hand, open arms. And one of these days, you wouldn't grab hold tight enough, soon enough. Like tonight. When were all your '_just in times_' going to run out? Any day now, if your luck was any tell.

"Bones," you said, daring to shift, daring to touch her and try to make her look at you. "I'm sorry. You shouldn't have to put up with something like that."

Her face shifted through three thousand dark expressions in the dark of her bedroom in three all-too-fast seconds. Only your own fear for her response kept you focused enough to see that in the myriad of thoughts and fears and beliefs there might be one or two things you could hold onto.

She shook her head, ready to tell you that she'd be fine, that she could take care of herself, but it would break your heart if you had to hear it again. You weren't angry with her for saying it anymore-- it wasn't a blind or prideful assertion, it was merely the truth. But you had to stop her from saying it anyway.

So, as if you were watching it from outside yourself, you saw yourself touch one finger, firm, to her lips. "I know. You can take care of yourself. You can. I believe you. But ... you shouldn't have to. And ... I shouldn't make it so you have to."

She blinked, noncomprehending for a minute before her expression shifted again and she looked at you angrily. Those yellow flickers shaded to white heat in an instant.

"Get out," she said flatly. "How _dare_ you presume you can come in here and make ... love ... to me just because you feel guilty."

_That was not the result you expected._

"What?"

"Get _out_," she said, the high-pitched yelps of her own dogs barking again in the rising tone of her voice. "Do you think I don't know what you don't tell me? Do you think I don't know what you won't show me?" She pushed past where you'd sat next to her on the bed and stood over you as she quivered with rage. Her small form and split lip and pale skin dotted with bruises made her look like an angry, wavering ghost in the darkness.

"Get _out_," she hissed, pointing back out to the hall. "At least I have the decency not to load you up with promises and hints and half-told secrets, _words_ I can't honor and won't even even pretend to. Get the _fuck_ out of here. I can't believe you have the gall to pretend like this isn't something you won't just back away from in the morning. You know damned well you're too fucking afraid of my damage to deal with it in the daylight, and I don't want your temporary solace tonight. I'm always alone in the end. So get the fuck out and leave me to it."

She was panting, chest heaving, eyes glittering as wildly and breath rasping more loudly than earlier when she murdered that monster as he deserved-- and yet now it was in response to you, though for a twisted variant on the real reason.

That mad-eyed look of hers, her disbelief that your would stay, her utter conviction that she was completely alone-- it snapped that last leash, opened the door to let the monsters into the rest of the house, broke down that last stockade that kept winters' wolves from tearing the world with their teeth. All your inner demons roared out, this time drawn to that fire of hers, the one that flickered and burned too hot, too high and bright for most mortals to bear.

"No," you heard yourself saying, getting up and crushing her to you. "I'm not leaving. Not this time. Not again. And it's not your damage, Temperance, don't you dare say so."

You were so angry you'd pulled her body flush to yours to make sure she wouldn't try to escape, taken her chin firm in your hands to make her look straight at you. Her eyes, already dilated, grew wider in surprise, even as she grabbed you and dug her nails into your sides through the thin undershirt you'd left on when you'd shucked your shirt and tie and laid out on her sofa. _Walking into your sweet enemy's lair with no armor._

"It's _not_ your damage. It's mine. Don't you fucking think, _ever_, that whoever you are and whatever you've dealt with has one goddamned thing to do with it," your hoarse panicked voice rasped, all bets now off. All the sweet preplanned words were gone, all the mulled-over romantic declarations were burned up in the fire of the moment, the moment when you needed to just make her _believe_.

She dug her nails so hard into your sides as she looked at you that you knew they'd leave bruises. Maybe scars. _Scars were good. Scars were permanent. Bruises were temporary-- sometimes you even forgot you'd been bruised, until you got bruised again. Scars reminded you to be careful. _

"I am not letting you in only for you to back off again. I'm not. I'm not," she said, her skin and eyes burning so hot that your ice-winter's-wolves, the ones that forced your soul into hibernation were cast back, melted in the heat of her. Your monsters were only good in the dark-- the light she cast was too bright and hot for them to get close and survive. They burned as you made her stop arguing with you the only way you knew how.

"I am not backing off," you growled, then kissed her. Kissed her like she was the last woman on earth because to you, she was. _She always had been, even before you ever knew her. All of that conviction that there was something more just around the corner, all that time? That corner was Bones._

You kissed her because you needed her-- and you needed her to need you in return. The harsh embrace you held her in to keep her from running away because you would drown if she ever let go-- the tide turned into her clawing, pushing, plucking hands on you, pushing you hard, but not onto the bed. _Bed's too far. The floor's closer. _You pulled her down with you, as she'd intended, the harsh grunt of the air leaving your lungs as you hit the ground turning fast into a growl of anticipation as you held her waist hard in her hands and rolled her onto her back. She literally whipped your belt off, pulling it so hard that the friction of it slipping through the loops over your back left what felt like a burning welt. _Burning was good. Being left alone in the cold was the only alternative._

_Tearing frenzy. Is that what they call it? _You tore her top from her, bent your head to growl and bite at the sweet flesh exposed to you, those white globes beckoning-- twin moons for your wolves to howl at. It felt like your shirt melted from you-- certainly you never noticed it gone, never felt yourself moving to let her drag it up over your shoulders, until it was gone and she was scratching you hard, yanking your chest down so she could bite and nip at you, her hard sucking mouth on you eating away at the rest of your fears.

Her pants were yanked down and away. Your own trousers and boxers went flying. She might have tugged your socks off with her teeth, you weren't sure. Her fire was too magnetic, and she must have needed your cold, because the next thing you knew she'd wrapped her legs around your back, jerking you down toward her until your hips ground hard against hers, her core _molten hot and searing and wet _ready for you as you slid quickly over her, your animal groan met by her own.

She grabbed the side of your face, her nails hard in the back of your neck. "Now," she snarled. You weren't going to argue. Your grasping hands found her ass, held her hard as you lined yourself up and slammed yourself into her. She shrieked, reactively clamping her arms and legs around you, making it impossible for you to back away until this was done. That union, that coming together so primal-- it shocked you as much as the truths of the night, but then there was no hesitation because her back was bowed away from you, breasts crowning as her neck bared itself to you, a long moan erupting from her throat as you filled her and she took you in.

_Perfect fit. As if there were ever a doubt._

"Mine," you heard yourself growl, then started to move. "Mine, mine, mine," you grunted with each thrust as you came back to her, "nobody else's, just mine." She squealed with that last thrust, hitching her ankles up tighter around your back, taking you deeper even as you hitched your hands under her harder.

"Harder," she ordered, pulling you so close to her chest that the sweat between you was dripping onto the floor, running in trickles down your chest and pooling where your hips joined.

She bucked hard against you, her actions demanding oblivion, forgetfulness, even if just for a night, but your protective instincts kicked in and you heard yourself rasp "the rug" in between nuzzling and licking the sweat on her breasts, your hips clashing together all the while.

"Screw the rug," she moaned, shifting her hands on you to grab at your hips, pull you more slowly but more deeply inside.

_Deep. Just like all that scary shit going way deep inside you. Just like whatever deep scary shit she wanted to forget for a bit. _You paused, hitched her legs up and held onto her ankles as you changed the depth of your penetration, and she groaned in relief, grabbing hard at your shoulders.

She moaned when you next returned to her, a sound of such growing satisfaction that it snapped your control. You hitched her even closer, her knees practically back in her armpits, and she moaned even harder, her eyes shut and face starting to shed some of the furious tension she'd quivered with earlier.

"You," you gasped. "Not gonna let you ... promise," you panted, not making sense but needing to try to tell her something in between the waves of heat crashing through you each time you returned to her molten center, the way it surrounded and held you tight like nothing else. "Not gonna make you ..." you gasped, your hips slamming into her prompting a gratified wordless groan from her, the tone of her voice rising higher with as you finished each thrust.

"Don't have to ... alone," you babbled, your last grasp on words or coherent thought beyond making her scream in relief gone.

Her voice rose, her cries quickened, and with one more hitching thrust in her depths she gave as loud a shriek as before, except this was a victory cry not a death one. Her walls clamped and flooded you in liquid heat and the last bit of stockade, the last line of leash, the last lock on the door shattered, your own release punching through you like that spear of realization earlier. You weren't sure this wouldn't kill you either. _But what a way to go._

You managed not to collapse as you roared your release. Managed to hold yourself upright, the sweat in your hair and your face running down, dripping and pooling on both of you as she gasped and moaned in the aftermath. She looked up at you finally, her eyes dark in the room's shadows and telling you nothing except that they glittered a little less madly. She pulled you down hard for a kiss and you tasted the tang of her blood from her lip welling. Now that the frenzy had passed for the moment, you lurched back.

Before you could begin to be horrified at what you'd just done after what she'd just been through, she grabbed you and made you look at her. "No. Don't you dare think it. Don't you dare think I didn't need it as much as you do. You're you, Booth. No one else. And I want you. So don't you dare think it."

You looked as deeply at her as you'd ever tried before, hoping, wishing, needing it to be true, a different direction from the aimless one in which you'd been spinning all this time-- and it was, you could see it. Your own need was reflected there, and all the things you were capable of, that she was capable of now apparent.

"Alright," you rasped, your howl of shuddering orgasm making your voice hoarse.

"Good," she said, hitching herself back until you slid from her warmth. Propping herself up on her elbows, she looked at you one long moment. You levered yourself back before standing, groaning and wondering if you'd topple from dizziness, then hauled her up from the floor. She looked at you a long moment, then pulled you down for another deep kiss, her tongue exploring you, her teeth nipping and testing the bounds of your flesh.

"Good," she said pausing, then turned both of you and shoved you back onto the bed. Crawling up over you, she licked your shaft back to life with one long swipe of her tongue, swirling the tip of her tongue over the head of your length. Your own animal groan as she brought you back to near instant attention extended as she took you in hand, lined herself up with you, and speared herself onto you. Scratching your chest to get your attention, she gave you a feral, satisfied smile.

"Mine," she said, then pushed up and away, only to return and take you again into her encompassing heat. "Mine," she repeated, then groaned in satisfaction as you grabbed her waist, hitched your legs up behind her, and agreed.

"Nobody else's," she panted, digging her nails in. She would leave scars. Scars were good-- they were permanent, not temporary.

* * *

_**I thought of this while listening to the Foo Fighters' "Pretender"-- Equally applicable to both partners, I think, given the secrets they keep, their worldly personas and how they rely on the other to not make them disclose them. **_

_Keep you in the dark/ You know they all pretend/ Keep you in the dark/ And so it all began_

_Send in your skeletons/ Sing as their bones go marching in, again/ The need you buried deep/ The secrets that you keep are at the ready/ Are you ready?/ I'm finished making sense/ Done pleading ignorance/ That whole defense_

_Spinning infinity, boy/ The wheel is spinning me/ It's never-ending, never-ending/ Same old story_

_What if I say I'm not like the others?/ What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?/ You're the pretender/ What if I say that I'll never surrender?_

_In time or so I'm told/ I'm just another soul for sale-- oh, well/ The page is out of print/ We are not permanent/ We're temporary, temporary/ Same old story_

_I'm the voice inside your head/ You refuse to hear/ I'm the face that you have to face/ Mirrored in your stare/ I'm what's left, I'm what's right/ I'm the enemy/I'm the hand that will take you down/ Bring you to your knees_

_So who are you?/ Yeah, who are you?/ Yeah, who are you?/ Yeah, who are you?_

_Keep you in the dark / You know they all pretend_

_What if I say I'm not like the others?/ What if I say I'm not just another one of your plays?/ You're the pretender/ What if I say that I'll never surrender?_

_So who are you? / Yeah, who are you?/ Yeah, who are you?/ Yeah, who are you? _


	18. Newton's First Law of Motion

_**A/N: **_

_**A post-Mayhem end of episode M-Rated 'lovemaking' tag. Consider it what could have happened instead of "Same, Not Different," a Magpie's Nest piece if Booth's response to his realizations was a bit quicker.**_

_**This one's for Alanna and the several others who've asked for a new 'making love' fic for this collection.**_

* * *

**Newton's First Law of Motion**

Breaking a dish.

Hot water.

The trunk of a car.

_Fair warning_. Fair. God and His saints and angels were crying at the fact that she thought somewhere inside her that maybe, just maybe, being locked in the trunk of a fucking car for _two fucking days_ might have been _fair_.

You knew—just _knew_-- there would be a story like that. All the things you two talked about, all the things you pried out of her, despite knowing her, spending time with her, wanting to spend _all _your time with her— you two still never spoke about anything like _that_.

Not that you'd told her most of your stories. It was hard to feel angry at her for her own unpoured-out well of dark stories under the circumstances.

You two had a tacit agreement—you'd only discuss what you felt comfortable admitting to, or felt willing to be pushed on. You each could ask, yes. But the other one could look away, change the subject, say not tonight, refuse to answer the question or respond to the prod. You could play it safe, not reveal the things that had scared you, not act on the thoughts about her that frightened you more.

There was so much—_so much—_she'd never told you. And so much you'd never told her. Tonight's admission scared you—and not just because of all her horrors that you knew nothing about, the ones she still hadn't told you that might have made a difference in your even knowing her, in her being alive for you to know. No—tonight's admission scared you because she just _flung _that story out there, and then _dared_ you not to follow her.

You'd told her all this time that it's okay, that it's what she should do, that people who care about her wouldn't judge her and that she'd have to share things in order to forge a connection. You never thought she'd be ready to share something that raw before you were. You weren't ready to dare that equal confession, much less anyone else. Much less _Sweets_.

For all her genius, her beauty, her _everything, _you'd always thought you could trust your own heart to tell you when it was safe to let go of things and say them out loud. And yet here she was—_challenging_ you to say something you didn't know you might ever say to her, despite how much you … well, she was Bones, if you told anyone, it would be her. And instead of her seeming shocked or disgusted, she gave you that tremulous smile then gave you her half of that look the two of you had that said she wouldn't ask and you could say more or not as you chose.

And then, metaphor of metaphors, she put your handkerchief damp with her tears back in your pocket. Folded carefully, arranged precisely, placed gently, that small square of fabric was patted just firmly enough for her elegant fingers to say something so simple and scary as she touched you so briefly right near your heart. It was a small physical touch, but from where you stood, it felt like a thunderbolt, jolting you down to your bedrock.

_Your heart's safe with me, and I'm putting mine right here with yours._

You were frightened out of your wits. She felt her heart was safe with you, and oh, you wanted to give her yours more than anything else in the world. You always thought you'd say it first, that you could trust yourself to know when it would be the right time to tell her the scary things she would need to know before you took that last leap so you didn't scare her away. But you'd been wrong. As you thought more about it, you realized you were even more wrong than you initially thought. Last week's visit to your place took on a whole different light, her "_I concede I feel jealousy_," and her "_I want to believe_" the same thing as all your references to "_eventually_" and "_someday_" and "_someone_."

_She was ready before you thought she would be. What else hadn't you said that you'd decided she wasn't ready to hear, when it turned out you were the one not ready to speak? What else had she said that you hadn't heard?_

_Ready or not, where the hell did you start?_

_

* * *

_Why had you let Gordon-Gordon drive her and Sweets home? Why hadn't you insisted she stay, or insisted that you drive her yourself? That's right-- you were still completely bowled over by her admission and by the way she didn't blink over yours. You were just completely astonished that she dealt with you as she always did, like what you'd said didn't change things between you.

What you'd said didn't change things between you, no matter how much you thought her confession changed your perception of her. But not Bones. No-- she seemed to believe that you were still the same person as before you'd said anything.

Ready or not, you had to start somewhere, sometime. It might as well be now, because you sure as hell weren't going to let someone else follow her, move while you still tried to decide.

* * *

_This is a bad idea. This isn't the time for it. This is too soon_. _Shut up and stop being a coward_, you told yourself as you knocked, calling "Bones, it's Booth."

"Booth," she said, a calm look on her face and a quizzical note in her voice as she stood to the side and let you come in.

"Bones, I ... I should have called first, I know," you said, then laughed almost hysterically at the way you mirrored the words she'd said only a week ago when she came to your apartment, trying to start a conversation you weren't ready to have, trying to make you budge from the position you'd taken.

"It's fine," she said, shutting and locking the door, then following you into her living room. "Is everything alright?"

"I could ask you the same," you said cautiously as you perched at the edge of one of her chairs. She looked at you a long moment, considering your question.

"Are you asking me if I am troubled or worried or concerned by what happened back in Sweets' office?"

You snorted. Only Bones would encapsulate something so raw as both your admissions in such a polite, detailed manner now that she'd had time to gather herself.

"Yeah. That's what I'm asking. I ... ah ... I'm not so sure for my own part."

She looked at you another long moment, sitting opposite you on the couch. "I shouldn't have pushed you like that," she said sadly. "I'm sorry, Booth. I ... just ... it just happened, and I thought he needed to know... "

"People get up every day and do good things no matter what happened before." There. It wasn't so hard when you said it like you were talking about somebody else besides you.

"Yes," she said carefully. "That. But I still shouldn't have pushed you like that. It was ... unkind."

She seemed deeply contrite and was becoming even more so the longer you looked at her, her voice dwelling on that last word, "_unkind_." God knew what your expression must be for her to be looking at you like that-- you were always using that word. _Jesus, Seeley, way to be unkind yourself._ You cleared your throat around the lump taken residence there and spoke.

"No. It's okay. Really. You know you were right about it not always being kind to avoid telling the truth. Just ... I was surprised and ... shocked by what you said ... and just ... completely off guard. But you were right-- sometimes things just have to come out whether we're ready to say them or not. Sometimes the fact that it hurts or is scary in the telling matters less, because it's more important that someone else hear it and know it's okay anyway. The ... the being kind part is just a ... stalling tactic." _Stalling. Yep. I've been stalled, still, unmoving no matter what I thought I was doing for two years? Three? Longer? Since she dared me that first time to be a cop? Stalling, that's one way to describe it._

She looked immensely relieved, and that small line between her eyes when she worried smoothed out.

"You're braver than I am, you know," you said then, jumping in as your doubts still dragged at you. "You don't always know what's going to happen, but you dive in anyway."

_Far braver. She didn't have my grandfather, whether or not she thought it would have been a cardinal sin, and she's still here. Whatever thoughts she had about not being here, she dealt with them. Alone. Christ. No, not even Christ, at least you'd had Him to believe in although it hadn't really helped at the worst points._

"Not really," she said with a sour twist to her mouth. "Most of the time I stay a mile away from the pool."

You barked a laugh. You weren't ever sure what metaphors Bones would get and which ones she wouldn't, even after all this time. She still surprised you.

"Yeah, well, better that than always standing at the edge, planning out that one perfect dive over and over in your mind, without even climbing the ladder to take a better look at what you're diving into to see if it's safe after all." Your tone was incredibly bitter as you tasted the time wasted filling your mouth.

"Quite a pair, hunh?" you asked then.

She tipped her head and nodded as she looked at you, then said quietly, "yes."

You stood, knees ready to knock, hands sweating, cold running down your spine. "You asked me almost a week ago about something, and I thought you were just asking generally, but now I think maybe you weren't."

She waited for you to continue-- not prodding, not pressing, just waiting to see what you'd say. Still, for the moment. How long would she wait for a response?

_Here goes. Climb the damned ladder and jump._

"See, I thought... I wanted to think... hold on a sec, Bones, be patient with me." You stopped. Thought. Gripped your cold hands together. Opened your mouth again. Forced the words out.

"I thought ... I let myself think you were speaking generally about ... being in love and ... losing yourself in someone, and ... wanting to believe there was someone you could believe would make you happy. I ... didn't think you were speaking specifically, I thought that you were asking me if it was generally possible. I didn't get that maybe you were asking ... me a specific question."

She stilled as you spoke, her gaze sharp and soft all at once. When your throat closed over again as you looked in the depths of your eyes, she spoke. "And now you think maybe I was asking you if it was possible. _You_, not just someone."

You nodded, speechless. What if you were wrong? What if it wasn't your own life, alone, burning around you? What if it was doing this, daring this, that consumed you and left nothing behind?

"What do you want the answer to be?" she asked softly.

You went over to her, took her warm dry hands in your cold sweaty ones, and tugged her up to stand, your bodies practically touching. "I ... don't want to keep saying _someday_ but ... I'm not sure, I ... don't know if I'm ready ..."

She pulled one hand out of yours and placed it over your heart where she'd patted you earlier, though you'd left your jacket and handkerchief at home this time.

"Is anyone ever really ready for anything?"

You chuffed a laugh, the rhetorical question just begging the answer out loud-- she was daring you for the second time today to just _say_ something, to stop dodging the question.

"No. No, that's impossible, it's hard enough telling when's soon enough," you replied, looking down at her hand over your heart. The warmth of it was physical and emotional, the latter so warm that your ice-cold doubting hands started to melt.

"So ..." she asked, more vulnerability and doubt in her eyes now than when the two of you stood in Sweets' office hours ago, "when's soon enough?"

_She wanted you to do this. She already thought it was time. She already thought she was safe with you. She just had no idea if you felt the same and yet she tugged at you anyway. _Your voice caught in your throat again, and your free hand rose of its own accord to press her hand over your heart to your chest.

"Soon enough's already taken too long," you said.

You took that last unspoken dare, leapt from where you'd been stalling-- waiting too long-- and jumped, no longer worried about whether you'd drown. If you did-- what a way to go. Without all of her, you would dry out and crumble if you stood still as she moved further away from that line you'd drawn. She couldn't wait there forever, she was already in motion.

Lips met and there was pressure on and around you, her body and lips against yours. The shock of the water surrounded you, a wholly new element from the air you'd been in just moments before. You swam deeper. Your arms were around her, hers around you, and you didn't need to breathe, you just needed to never stop kissing her.

She tasted like red wine and cassoulet and the eclairs you'd bought for dessert, since Gordon-Gordon claimed he was no baker. Maybe not, but he'd sure as hell stirred the pot and brought things to a boil. But over and under and all around all of those things she tasted like _Bones _and _more _and _never enough _and _what the hell was I waiting for._

Breathing was a painful interruption of your drowning yourself in the smell, taste and feel of her, the need to look gone because she was _right here _and you didn't need to guess what her eyes meant, how she was going to react-- because she was already reacting.

You breathed heavily, forehead against hers, too close to look in her eyes but close enough to see her tongue dart out to lick her lips wonderingly.

"Okay?" you murmured, half-speechless at how your heart hammered in your chest and the feel of her pressed all the way up against you with none of the distance of your ridiculous guy hugs denying you the fullness of her warmth.

"Yes," she said almost breathlessly, her own chest heaving slightly against yours. Her arms were holding you tightly, both to her and holding herself up-- both good things because your arms around her were doing the same.

The feel of her breath on your neck was all you needed to take the plunge again, and your mouth was on hers even as you could feel her pushing you back towards the bedroom, her hands on your hips guiding you around obstacles you already knew were there, all the time you'd spent in her apartment.

"I know my way," you gasped, and now you finally did understand, all of it. You picked her up, groaning as she wrapped her legs around your waist and sealed her mouth to the side of your neck. You turned quickly and headed down the hall to her room. The door was already open-- good thing, you'd have kicked it down otherwise-- and the dark bulk of her bed in the unlit room wasn't hard to make out. Three steps had you there and the two of you fell into the bed, Bones lying beneath you and her hands making short work of your shirt buttons and belt buckle. She'd changed from that dress she wore earlier, the one that showed off her curves and those white graceful arms of hers, and the knit top she had on was easy to push up enough to admire the skin your actions revealed. As she pushed your shirt off your shoulders and down your arms, you knelt up to shrug off the fabric. She unzipped your fly as you did, then grasped you firmly after snaking her hand into your boxers.

"Christ, Bones," you cursed, looking down at her to see an interested and solemn expression on her face as she shoved down your pants with her one hand while she still stroked you with the other. Multi-talented as always, your partner. "Here," you grunted, shifting just enough to peel off the rest of your clothes even as she sat up and pulled off her top. You were quick enough to push her back into the bed and take over the pleasure of pulling her pants off, skimming the silk of her legs with your fingers as you peeled the fabric away.

White lace briefs, white lace bra, whiter-still skin. She licked her lips as she watched you toss away the clothes clumped at the end of her bed, lifting her hips as you tugged at her panties and unclasping the front of her bra herself, those perfect, generous breasts spilling out for your viewing pleasure. As you crept back toward her after tossing her things off to the side, your rock hard arousal drew her attention and she smiled slightly as she took you in hand. You nearly fell at how good it felt when she stroked you and fondled your balls at the same time, but you managed some bit of control and lay on your side as you pulled her close to you. As she continued to stroke you, you concentrated hard on tracing your fingers over her hip, down her waist and over her ribs before teasing your way over the top of her breast. Now that you were here, you felt like you had all the time in the world, so you traced your way up to her face and pulled her in for a kiss, her body flush against yours.

So soft, so warm, so strong, so tender-- so many things, all of them Bones. Your lips and tongue moved against and with hers, your limbs tangling as you ran your hands over her curves and let her hair slip through your fingers. Your lips left her mouth to adorn her face, shoulders and neck while her hands on you plucked and stroked parts of you that hadn't ever been erogenous zones before Bones. You'd slung a leg over her hip as you cupped her face in your hands to kiss her again, and she arched against you almost languidly, the feel of her skin on yours a slow sliding of silk. She grasped one of your arms as you continued to kiss her, her hips undulating against you as you explored the depths of her mouth.

She rolled and you followed. She clung and you took hold, and without any real thought you slipped inside her, the two of you already moving together in one fluid motion before you even completed your entry. In unison, she moaned in satisfaction as you glided to the end of your walls, exhaling a sigh of relief. She followed as you went to withdraw, letting you two set a rhythm that flowed as naturally as anything you'd ever felt in your life.

Your hands stroked and kneaded her time and again, learning the feel of her in your hands as she kissed and caressed you in return. Your declarations of how gorgeous she was or how good she felt or how incredible she was were met with her sighs of your name and gasps as you came together again and her groans as you sucked at her breasts.

"Booth, so good..." she gasped at one point, as you learned how a particular pass of your thumbs over her nipples coupled with a particular knead of your hands on her firm creamy breasts made her purr and arch into your hands. She started to quiver with tension, the eye contact you'd both maintained so far yielding to her groaning, gorgeous reaction to your touch.

Each time her eyes shuttered, each time she bowed or shivered in response to some thrust or stroke of your body on hers-- "dreamed about you so long, my baby," you said in her ear, cupping her head in your hands as your chests moved so closely together that each inch of your skin was on fire.

Her hands were less purposeful now, her hips against yours less rhythmic and her legs gripping and feet sliding over your back less assured, more reflexive and out of conscious control. You brought your hands down to her hips as she cried out at one fuller thrust, her satin heat still clasping you tightly, the flow of the two of you at her core utterly perfect. "Oh ... Booth ... please," she gasped, "need...."

"Need you Temperance, my Bones," you husked in her ear. Her abandoned response to you was so much more than you felt you deserved, but Bones had already proven herself further along in taking care of your heart than you were, so you could trust for tonight that she knew better than you about what you deserved. She shifted under you, drawing you in as she moaned "more" as she grasped at your shoulders, her eyes glazed when they weren't fluttering shut each time you thrust yourself all the way in.

Forget more. You gave her all. "Bones," you groaned, speeding the pace and cradling her hips in your hands. Her whimpering moan in response, her passion-stung lips and blue eyes as dark as midnight compelled you, and soon she cried out each time your hips came together. She suddenly shuddered, her body writhing against you as her walls flooded and grasped you with tight pulses, her expression lost to anything except the ecstatic way she screamed "Booth!"

The sight and sound of her saying your name like that and the feel of her around and beneath you was the end of your control, your "Bones!" shouted from the depths of your gut. Your release went on so long that it might as well have spilled four years of incredible tension, and your own moan of her given name as she clung to you sounded as helpless as you felt.

However it was, you hadn't completely collapsed or crushed her beneath you. As you regained attention and focus, you found yourself mesmerized by her pink cheeks, her slight wheezing breaths, her muscles quivering slightly in pleased exhaustion.

"Oh," you moaned, forcing yourself to roll from her. Your withdrawal from her heat made her whimper, but her complaint shaded to a sigh as you pulled her with you and brought her head to rest over your heart. Her hands idly caressed you as you lay together, bodies cooling as you wound her hair through your hands. Your hearts slowed and chests heaved less deeply, hands and limbs moving desultorily now. Slowly, with effort, you groaned and sat up enough to find her covers and pull them up over you both, not letting her out of your grip that whole time. As you flopped back onto the bed, a whoof escaped you as you hit the bed and her head hit your chest. You shifted as she did, and you found yourself looking at her as she curled her body over you, her head at the join of your shoulder.

"Okay?" she asked you this time.

"Yeah," you rasped in response, swallowing and licking your lips. "More than okay."

She craned her head up to kiss you and you met her halfway, this time not needing to play catch up. Your lips caught hers, your body in motion moving forward to match hers at the same speed, and coming to rest together. You'd followed her lead, and she'd lead you home, the two of you sliding safely to a stop here with your arms encircling each other.

"Mmmm," she hummed as you rubbed the small of her back with your hand. "S'nice. Rest a bit?"

"Whatever you want, Bones, you just let me know when you're ready to go again."

She chuckled and cracked an eye to look at you, a small grin on her face. "Mmm. It's been a long day. We can stay here for a bit. Enough bodies in motion for now."

Your eyes closed of their own accord and your limbs shifted to find a more comfortable position without thinking about it, and Bones followed you until you both stilled and you felt sleep start to steal over you, resting together.

"Bones? What's that bodies in motion thing?" you murmured into the darkness.

Her breath ghosted warm over your chest. "Bodies in motion tend to stay in motion. Bodies at rest tend to rest. Newton's First Law of Motion."

Another thing you'd been wrong about, you smiled to yourself in the darkness. It hadn't been about breaking the laws of physics at all. It had been about following them.

* * *

**_Newton's First Law of Motion is sometimes called the Law of Inertia. Bodies at rest tend to stay at rest unless acted upon by an outside force; bodies in motion tend to move at the same speed unless moved upon by some outside force._**


End file.
